Charl(i)es' Angels!
by ThomE.Gemcity-06
Summary: Tag: Season 1; w/ major spoilers [something's will stay the same, some will be altered]. 'The challenge to the man that had murdered his father, that he had readied to issue from his lips, died as he found not only one beautiful woman in front of him, but three.' Would things really change if the Inseparables were women instead of men? Note: !Gender-Bender!, OOC Traits, m/f & f/f.
1. Pursuit 1: Friends & Enemies

**a/n: As I was writing this, I looked online to see if there were any other Musketeer gender-bender stories, and I came across this thing on tumblr for who would play the boys if they were women. Emily Blunt was chosen for Athos.** **Naomie Harris** **for Porthos. And** **Penélope Cruz** **for Aramis. And as I started thinking about it, I couldn't get it this hot onsomble out of my head. Of course Keira Knightley was chosen for d'Artagnan, but I left him how he was for this.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own the Musketeers, just gonna borrow them and their adventures.**

 **Fic Tag:** _Season 1 (major spoilers)._

 **Includes:** (Gender Bender) (OOC traits) (m/f) (f/f) (swearing) (violence) (slight nudity)

* * *

 **Episode Tag:** Season1, Episode 1: Friends and Enemies.

 **Fic Summary: '** The challenge to the man that had murdered his father, that he had readied to issue from his lips, died as he found not only one beautiful woman in front of him, but three.' Would things really change if the Inseparables were women instead of men? !Gender-Bender!

* * *

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

 **Charl(i)es' Angels!**  
 **Pursuit 1:** _Friends and Enemies._

"I'm looking for Athos!" d'Artagnan called as he entered the Musketeers' garrison. There was but three Musketeers gathered at the bottom of a set of stairs that led to the up-stair barracks of the compound.

"You found her."

The pronoun didn't quite register with the Gascon, not until the black leather clad Musketeer turned to face him. d'Artagnan's pistol wavered slightly as he was unexpectedly faced with a woman. Confusion clouded his brown eyes at the blue-eyed lady. The challenge to the man that had murdered his father, that he had readied to issue from his lips, died as he found not only one beautiful woman in front of him, but three.

"You— You're— You're a— " he stammered.

"Yes?" She raised a brow at him from under her hat.

"Careful what you say next, kid." Advised one of the other women that stood behind Athos, leaning against the railing of the stair. She had dark brown hair with little curls in it tucked under a hat, with a light brown leather frock coat, high boots, an easy lilt to her lips and dark alluring eyes.

"Depends on if 'e wants to keep 'is parts exactly where they are and not at 'is feet, eh, Aramis?" A tall, dark-skinned woman elbowed her friend next to her, with a long black braid down the center of her back, a bandana tied around her head, and scar that cross sectioned over her left eye—but it did nothing to take away from her beauty, but perhaps added to it.

Aramis smiled in amusement. "Oh, Porthos."

"A woman." d'Artagnan finished lamely. He'd never known women to be Musketeers before, and clearly these three were. He could see each of their pauldrons with the clear markings of the Fleur-de-lis. "You're Athos?"

"That's what I said." She replied, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword as she eyed him and the pistol now lowered at his side. "Who are you, if I might ask?"

"Uh... Charles d'Artagnan of Lupiac in Gascony." d'Artagnan replied slowly, still trying to wrap his head around it. His father had been killed by a man, he'd been sure of it. He'd heard the bastard laughing as he rode away, leaving his dying father in his arms, gasping his killer's name with his last breath. In the pouring rain, Alexandre d'Artagnan's empty body in his arms, he had vowed to get revenge upon the man who had murdered his father in cold blood, and his grief was layered under his anger and guilt.

But a woman? He couldn't understand it. For some reason, it just seemed unreasonable. Why would a woman want to kill his father? How could a woman do such a thing? But as he looked across at Athos, he realized that this wasn't just some farmer's daughter from Gascony, this was a battle hardened woman, the three of them were. He could see their scars. The faint line drawn across Aramis' forehead, half obscured by her curls. The thin curve on Athos' top lip. And the very visible scar across Porthos' eye.

Woman or not, it did not matter if it was a murderer or a murderess. If she was the one that killed Alexandre, than d'Artagnan was going to be the one to kill her— or die trying in honour of his late father hardly three days past.

His anger and vengeance burned through the confusion.

Athos started, "Why—"

"You killed my father!"

"Now this is interestin'." Porthos murmured, straightening.

Athos' brows twitched in surprise. "I did what now?"

d'Artagnan threw his pistol to the side and drew his rapier. "You murdered my father. One of us dies here today."

"Listen," Athos said calmly, even as she was forced to draw her sword in mirror of d'Artagnan. "I usually remember it when I kill someone."

"So you deny that you murdered Alexandre d'Artagnan not three days ago at an inn a couple hours outside Paris?"

"You're are mistaken. I am not the woman you're looking for. That name means nothing to me."

The denial of his father's name felt like a physical blow. He gritted his teeth. "Murderess!" and he charged at her.

His attack was head-on, and Athos was able to easily parry the downward strike. He instantly struck again and she stayed willingly on the defensive for the moment, hopefully able to tire the young man out and reap more information.

But it wasn't long before Athos tossed her hat aside, it flying through the air like a disk as she forgot herself for a second in the fight. For someone so clearly green, he had great skill—a diamond in the rough.

"I'm impressed." Aramis instantly took notice of the subtle change in Athos, leaning against a support beam to both move out of the way and get a better view. "He's keeping up with Athos."

"Rubbish!" Porthos shook her head in denial, her arms crossed over her chest. "She just doesn't want t' hurt the lunatic."

Aramis chuckled at the sentiment. While she was sure that part wasn't exactly true, it was obvious he was taken by grief and anger; there was an energy in the lad that was almost startling.

d'Artagnan backed off a step, a bit breathless. She was an amazing swordswoman, he'd never encountered someone so skilled before. But he guessed she had to be, if she was a Musketeer, and probably more so because she was a woman. He hated that he was impressed by the murderess of his father, though he'd be remiss to underestimate her. The twinge in his ribs were an annoyance he couldn't afford with an opponent, but one he was stuck with.

"Your seem to be a liar as well! To deny his killing to my face is a grave insult."

She narrowed her eyes at this second accusation, and this time, when he came at her, she decided this play was over. She had lost herself in the fight long enough. He was a fool to accuse her of false crimes and she had better things to do with her time. She drove his back against a beam with several successive blows, and relinquished him of his rapier. Despite being petit she pinned him back against it with her sword arm across his chest (noting the grimace).

Any other time a woman was pressed up against him like this, his head might have turned into a tomato of blush, especially someone as attractive as her, but as it was, the dagger jabbed into the post behind his neck didn't elate the feeling.

"That's enough!" She told him, before she drove her main gauche into the wood next to his throat. "That could have been your throat. Don't make me kill you over a mistake!" She spat, her eye narrowed as his brown eyes burned with anger and hate. She couldn't deny his potential. It was there, behind the hot anger that made him sloppy and open. Maybe if he wasn't such an idiot, but that could be attributed to the loss of his father. She released him and turned her back, heading towards her friends. The fight done. "I did not kill your father."

It was like the ultimate insult, to turn her back on him during their duel. Like she didn't think him worthy enough. It didn't matter if she was a woman. If she killed his father, then she deserved the fait he gave. He pulled a dagger and released it.

"Athos!" Aramis' warning gave the other woman just enough time to dodge the coming dagger, which embedded itself into the wood next to Aramis' hand.

"And that could have been your back!" d'Artagnan returned as the woman turned back to him with a cold expression. "Now fight me!" he retrieved his fallen sword, "or die on your knees! I do not care which." Athos continued to glower at him. "No?" He charged at her anyways.

He thrust his sword, but it was parried by another as Aramis stepped in between the pair. "She said that was enough."

d'Artagnan narrowed his eyes at the intruder. "This is not your concern."

"When you accuse my friend of murder, I dare say it is, Charlie." Aramis said, just as intense.

"It's Charles." he ground out. "And I'll fight both of you if need be!" He pushed Aramis' blade away and faced the two women.

Athos tsked in annoyance and with a lightning fast strike, pinned d'Artagnan's blade against the table next to them, Aramis quickly locked her blade a top as well.

"Oi, don't leave me out." Porthos protested, putting her sword on the top of the pile. "So, you give up yet?" d'Artagnan seethed. "For God's sake, put up your sword!"

His lips twisted in contempt at the suggestion. "You'll have to kill me for it!"

And to the three Musketeers' surprise, he threw off their swords, jumped back and faced against them.

"Lively little bugger, aren't you?" Porthos grinned. She was always in for a fight. She loved the excitement and the exertion. Sometimes, depending on the opponent, it could be better than sex (though she knew Aramis would not agree). It was something that Athos, Aramis and Captain Treville had talked to her about on more than one occasion—but she couldn't help it. It was like the sky being blue, or blood being red. It just was how she was.

He held the three women at bay for several minutes, but even as skilled and youthful as he was, these were experienced swordswomen. Their number and their skill overpowered him and with an unexpectedly powerful blow from Porthos, he was driven back against the stairs, and found three sword-tips at his jugular, keeping him in check.

"Should we 'ave a little fun with 'im?" Porthos traced the tip of her blade against his bobbing Adam's apple as he swallowed. Aramis smirked in contemplation.

d'Artagnan glared at them defiantly. He hadn't been lying when he had said one of them was going to die here today. Though he felt shame at not being able to avenge his father, it was something that he'd tried and perhaps it was just that he died by the same hand. But anger made him grit his teeth as Athos withdrew her blade and turned away. He tensed, pushing forward despite the two swords still at his throat. He wouldn't let her get away! If she murdered his father, he would have vengeance.

"Stop fighting, all of you!" a already familiar female voice called. d'Artagnan could see her through the gap between Aramis and Porthos, Athos in the same shot as the red-haired woman.

"We weren't going to kill him." Athos remarked plainly.

"We weren't?" Porthos glanced back at Athos before she looked aside at Aramis. "Did you know 'bout this?"

"No. Next time, let us know, hm?" she said over her shoulder to Athos.

Reluctantly it seemed, both women sheathed their swords and stepped back. They would have to have some kind of blood lust if they wanted to be soldiers, after all—though in truth, he'd prefer it not to be his own, but beggars can't be choosers, and d'Artagnan was anything but a beggar.

"Madame Bonacieux, what are you doing here?" Athos enquired politely.

"I followed him because I knew he was going to do something stupid." Constance pushed through the trio of Musketeers. "I was right, wasn't I?"

She was his savoir several times now since his arrival in Paris and in this single day no less. First, against his pursuers from the tavern he had stayed the night in and the results of his encounter with a dark-haired, green-eyed woman whom he'd taken to bed in a stint to drive away his grief and anger; when he'd passed-out and she'd taken him home and wrapped his bruised ribs from his esape; and now—which was assuredly the more embarrassing of all.

d'Artagnan climbed to him feet. "I don't need a woman to protected me." He hissed, his face hot with embarrassment. Yes, he realized the irony of it.

"Oh, shut up. Don't say another word." Constance told him outright. "If only people would _think_ , then there might be more good ones left."

"Amen, sister." Aramis nodded. "Him, I'm not sure about, but you I like."

Before Constance could retort, Treville walked into the garrison, a grim expression on his face and the two Red Guard trailing him obvious.

"What's goin' on?" Porthos asked.

"Never mind." Treville stopped in front of the group and looked to Athos. "Did you find Cornet?"

"He never made it to the monastery." Athos answered. "Give us twenty men and we'll—"

"Athos, I'm sorry." Treville stopped her with regret. "These men are here to arrest you," he indicated the two Red Guard, "You are to appear before the King on the charge of robbery and murder." Aramis and Porthos spoke in protest, but Athos was silent. "I promised there would be no trouble."

d'Artagnan felt his heart pound. Though he would not get to avenge his father personally, Athos was being punished in another way. So why did his gut twist so unsatisfactorily?

Athos nodded in agreement, but she had to try one last time before she went. She looked back to d'Artagnan solemnly. "I am not the woman you are looking for."

d'Artagnan stepped forward desperately. "Then why did my father name you as his killer?"

"I don't know." She admitted her confusion as the two Red Guard flanked her and led her from the garrison.

* * *

d'Artagnan didn't really remember how he ended up back at the Bonacieux residence with Constance, but he knew that it hadn't been a good idea to stick around the Garrison as Athos was arrested, so he'd allowed the woman to lead him away.

"d'Artagnan? Are you alright?" she asked in concern, setting a cup of wine in front of him that he didn't drink.

He stared at it with a furrowed brow, his blunt nail picking at the outside edge. "Do you know that Musketeer? Athos?"

She wasn't exactly expecting that question as she sat next to him at the table. "A bit."

He looked over at her. "Do you believe she could have done this?"

"I don't know her that well," Constance reminded him, but she felt that she owed the truth of her thoughts, hoping that she might ease whatever was causing the young man such trouble. "But from what I know, she is honourable. Truth be told... I don't think that she would just cold-bloodedly murder your father."

d'Artagnan sighed, heavy-hearted. And while he appreciated her honesty, it did not quell the churning in his gut. "I came to Paris to kill the person that murdered my father," he said mournfully, "but all I seem to be finding are more questions."

"Funny how we seem to be in a similar situation, kid."

d'Artagnan was on his feet in an instant, standing between Constance and the door which stood both Aramis and Porthos entered the kitchen, his hand grasping the hilt of his sword, ready to draw at a moments notice.

He knew it would be only a matter of time before Athos' friends came for him, though he didn't expect it to be this soon, this way. He couldn't deny the symmetry. He'd burst into the garrison for Athos, and now they burst into the kitchen seeking him.

Aramis held her hands up peaceably as Constance slowly rose behind him.

"We're not here for a fight." Porthos said.

"We're here to ask of your assistance." Aramis nodded.

"Why should I help you?" he scoffed. "Athos murdered my father!"

"The conflict in your eyes is clear. You have doubts, and they're right. Athos did not kill your father, she's being set up. We just don't know why or by who, nor do we have proof just yet." Aramis reasoned. "That was why we came,"

His hand released the hilt of his sword at his hip after a charged moment, the gears in his head turning. The doubts in his heart were to hard to deny. He couldn't have Athos' blood on his hands if she was the wrong person. He couldn't condemn an innocent and have the real killer still out there, free to keep doing to other people what was done to him. "Alright."

Aramis and Porthos shared relieved looks, because the truth of it was, they had no leads themselves, and there only hope of saving Athos would be d'Artagnan. Both women were glad that they were right about the Gascon's disposition.

"What?" Constance was incredulous. She grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. "You were at each other throats an hour ago, and now you're best friends?!"

He could do not but shrug his shoulders and leave her unsatisfied by the answer as he remembered something. "At the inn," he swallowed the lump in his throat at the remembrance, "I was attacked by a couple men."

"So?" Porthos wondered.

"So... I killed one of the men. There's a chance that the body's still around."

"I knew we came t' you for a reason!" Porthos grinned.

"Charlie," Aramis said.

"Charles," he automatically corrected, "but d'Artagnan is fine."

The Spaniard nodded her assent. "There's no time to waste—Athos is to be executed in the morning."

d'Artagnan nodded and turned to Constance. He bowed light to the woman and kissed her knuckles. "Thank you, _Madame_. For all you have done for me," and he left with the two Musketeers, leaving her with rose coloured cheeks and a worried mind.

* * *

The closer they drew to the inn where his old life had ended, he could feel the grief fresh as if his father's blood was still on his hands, the old man's weight in his arms, it tried to swamp him as they rode their horses hard. He gritted his teeth and forced it back into a box sealed tight and to be opened later. When this whole mess was cleared with, he'd allow himself to find some place alone and let it take him. Whether he would be crushed under the full weight of it was yet to be seen.

As luck would have it, d'Artagnan had been right that the body of one of the men who had tried to kill him in the barn—his body was still there. The ground frozen from the cold, the innkeeper had to wait for the ground to thaw a bit before he'd be able to dig a shallow grave for the bastard.

Aramis and Porthos knelt by the body and d'Artagnan stood a step back, a disgusted twist to his lips. It just felt wrong that this man was in his grave alone, Alexandre's murderer should be right in there next to him. The only thing, he realized, that when he thought of his father's killer, he could no longer picture Athos as the perpetrator.

"That ain't right," Porthos was saying, drawing him back to the present. "'E's no Musketeer I've seen before."

d'Artagnan forced himself to focus as he looked down at the man over the women's shoulders. Something tickled at the back of his mind as he stared at the dead man, but it took him a moment to realize why. "There are two pistol wounds."

"Yeah, so what?" Porthos shrugged.

"I only shot him once."

Aramis and Porthos both looked back at him before turning back to the body with a new light in their eyes. Porthos fingered the two holes in the leather with gloved fingers before she peeled back the flap, revealing the man's chest and the single wound that lay there.

"Two shots in the leather, but only one on him..." Aramis remarked, sharing a look with her friend.

"Two men died in these leathers."

"What?" d'Artagnan wondered.

"This uniform, I recognize it." Aramis said slowly.

Porthos nodded and said, "Cornet."

He furrowed his brows. "That man that Athos mentioned to your Captain? The one that's missing?"

"'xaclty."

"Those Musketeers just didn't disappear, they were killed."

* * *

Now that they were looking for the sight of an ambush, the place presented itself on the path that the Musketeers would of had to of taken to deliver their message—and so did the striped bodies of the five missing Musketeer men.

"d'Artagnan, the men who did this killed your father as well. If you want justice, help us find them and clear Athos' name."

But the Gascon didn't need Aramis' words to convince him that this was the right path.

The Spanish gold that Porthos found led the trio to another clue—it pointed them right towards the Red Guard. Of course, he couldn't help but raise his brow at exactly how she got her hands on her own gold doubloon. She showed no shame as Aramis might have pointed out that she was gambler and cheat.

They headed back to Paris, and d'Artagnan waited impatiently in an empty barn with Aramis for Porthos to return with the Red Guard Dujon, with whom she had gambled with the other day.

"Are you sure she'll be alright to handle him on her own?" he asked.

Aramis laughed. "Don't let her hear you say that, she'll lay you out fast enough." She sighed at his still concerned expression. "You don't need to worry about Porthos, Charlie. You crossed swords with her briefly, she'd no sissy."

d'Artagnan sighed and relented, stopping in front of Aramis with his arms crossed over his chest. It was true, Porthos bore an unexpected strength that he was sure had cut down many men before him. "Can I ask...?"

She followed his gaze to where it rested on her pauldron, bearing the mark of the Fluer-de-lis. "Ah. Well, Captain Treville his a very open-minded and intelligent man. He saw that a well-trained woman could be as effective (and at times, more so than/) as a man. There are places that a woman can get that a man can't, hm?" she gave him a wink. He blushed at the implications behind that gesture, and she chuckled. "Men underestimate women, they can be idiots like that—present company excluded of course. You didn't even hesitate."

"Well, I fought against each of you, remember? There was no room for underestimating you—I'd be dead otherwise."

"True." She allowed. "Did you know that I was in the process of becoming a Sister before I convinced Treville to take me on?"

"Really?" he gaped in surprise. That seemed to be the last thing he would have though about when he looked at Aramis.

"Before I discovered my passion for people and excitement, that is. It just wasn't the path I was meant to take at that moment in my life. After a career in the Musketeers, that will be my road, but for now... the garrison, Porthos and Athos, that's where my home is." She told him pleasantly.

The Gascon felt wistfulness clench his heart at her words. Aramis knew what she wanted from life, where she was destined to end up. He didn't even know where he was going to be tomorrow. What was his life going to be now that his father was dead? He supposed after he brought Alexandre's killer to justice, he would go back Lupiac, and tend the farm. It was his now, now that his father was dead.

Before d'Artagnan's thoughts could really delve too deeply into the future of his own life, someone knocked on the barn door and Porthos called out. Aramis quickly let her in, dragging with her a stumbling Red Guard with a bound hands and a sack over his head.

"Look what I found!" She shoved the man onto his knees in front of the Spaniard.

"Just what was on my wish list! How did you know?" Aramis mock-gasped in delight.

Porthos grinned wickedly. "And I know just what to do to 'im, too!"

d'Artagnan watched them in amusement and resigned control of the interrogation over to the women. They knew Dujon more than he did, they would know what buttons to push. And it would be interesting to see how they worked.

With a nod from Aramis, Porthos snatched the hood from the Red Guard's head.

"Huh?" Dujon looked around him dumbly at d'Artagnan, Aramis, and Porthos.

"Time to pay the reckoning for Cornet." Aramis said.

Porthos narrowed her eyes. "And I bet 'e's going to say, _I have no idea what you're taking about."_

"And then we'll have to hurt him." She followed her friend line of thought.

Porthos rolled her eyes. "At which point, he'll suddenly remembered 'e killed 'im." They shared a look. "Why wait?" Aramis shrugged. "Let's just hurt 'im now."

Aramis smiled at the man. "It could go like that. Or we can just skip to the confession part. It would save us time, and you pain... **a lot of pain."**

Dujon insisted, "I was just following orders."

"'E was just following orders." Porthos reiterated to Aramis.

"We'd better let him go then."

Dujon sighed in relieve taking them at their word, before Porthos grabbed him up tightly. "I... I can't tell you! They'll kill me!"

"No need for that now," Aramis chided and pulled them apart. "We're not bitches... We'll just shoot him."

Porthos chuckled in glee, and Aramis went to retrieve her musket.

"What? No, listen, you can't, please..." he turned a pleading gaze to d'Artagnan on the side-lines. "Don't let them..."

The Gascon's handsome features twisted in disgust and his expression darkened in anger towards the despicable man. "There's not a chance in hell I'm going to stop them. You think you're scared now? You don't know anything. These two will hurt you worse than any man could."

Dujon paled further at his words, if that were possible.

Porthos grabbed Dujon and shaved him back against a beam at the edge of the barn—d'Artagnan would fit in with them just fine.

"You know. People say I'm quiet good with these." Aramis remarked, coming back to her original spot, her harquebus in hand.

"Good?" Porthos chuckled. "She'd the best. She's so modest." She retied Dujon's wrists around behind the beam.

"But..." Aramis continued, "The musket isn't the most relievable weapon. From a 100 yards, I'll probably miss as often as I hit." She cradled the weapon in one arm and poured a little packet of gun power down the barrel. "From 50, well, I rarely miss. But from 10? It's just a matter of, which vital organ do I choose to hit first?"

Dujon stammered, "No, no, no, please, listen, listen..."

"Heart?" Porthos wondered, ignoring his gibberish.

"Too swift." The markswoman disagreed, packing the powder down. "The liver, perhaps." Porthos chuckled, enjoying seeing Dujon squirm. "Or a stomach shot." She put the gun under her armpit as she got out the ball. "Death is inevitable, but you'll bleed for hours first."

Dujon was wild-eyed. "You can't. This is murder!"

"Well, we won't tell if you won't." Porthos said.

Aramis lined up the shot in the quiet and d'Artagnan shifted on his feet. Her breath whispered across the fuse, letting it burn.

Dujon whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut.

The Spaniard pulled the trigger.

"Bang!" Porthos spoke in Dujon's ear, making the Red Guard jump like a little girl.

"Oh!" Aramis made a face and winked over at a surprised d'Artagnan. "I forgot the ball!"

The Gascon couldn't stop the smile that twitched at his lips. It was frightening, these two women. Though he hadn't quite known it, he'd been on the mark when he said these women could hurt worse than any man.

Dujon exhaled in relief at still being alive. She showed him the ball and tossed it in the air, catching it easily. "Next time..." she whispered and slowly lowered the ball to the tip of the barrel mockingly, never taking her eyes from the poor excuse of a man.

The two women worked together seamlessly. It was just evidence of how close of friends Porthos and Aramis were. They hadn't even needed to speak beforehand, a few shared looks was all that was needed between the pair. It reminded d'Artagnan of how close he and his father had become, especially since his mother died when he was a child. His heart clenched in the chest at the reminder and the gaping losses he had in his life. He'd never have that again, he'd—

"It was Captain Gaudet!" Dujon said quickly, and the three of them stood at attention.

"Of the Red Guard?" Porthos questioned.

"He told us to do it." He fast-talked, information spilling from him like a bucket with a hole, "He said he wanted a few men fro a special mission. Something unofficial. An ambush to steal the King's letters. But Gaudet went mad. He killed them all!" d'Artagnan stepped forward intensely at this. "None of us knew it would be murder." Dujon insisted.

Porthos stepped to him, holding the gold doubloon. "You took this from Cornet."

"His saddle bags were full of Spanish gold. Gaudet said were could share it between us. I just—"

d'Artagnan had stood back long enough. He wanted some answers of his own. He grabbed a handful of Dujon's greasy hair in one hand, pushed his forearm against his windpipe with the other. "Who murdered my father?" he hissed. "Who?"

"Gaudet! It was Gaudet." Dujon wheezed desperatly.

Porthos quickly had to jerk the Gascon off the Red Guard, lest he'd of killed him. Any other time, the woman might've let him. It was the least he deserved. But despite her own feelings, she knew that they still needed him. She pushed him back towards Aramis, who put a hand on the Gascon's shoulder both to keep him from going back to the weasel and comfort him.

"He did it to blacken Athos' name." Dujon insisted desperately, gasping, "I'm not like him. I'm not a killer. I'm a solder, like you."

This time around, it was Porthos who grabbed him round the throat and nearly lifted him off his feet with her anger and unnatural strength.

Aramis stepped up next to her friend as d'Artagnan paced impatiently behind them. "Where is Gaudet now?"

"He's camped in the old ruins, outside the city gates." He cried. "I'll show you where, just don't kill me!"

"There, that wasn't so hard, now, was it?" Aramis murmured pleasantly and Porthos released the scum; he crumpled to the ground.

* * *

After Dujon led the trio to the ruins, Porthos knocked him out as they squeezed all they could from him about how many men were with Gaudet, and bound him like a hog.

"One guard at th' bridge. It's th' only way in or out." Porthos said quietly.

"Gaudet doesn't know that we know." Aramis mused next to her from where they lay under cover. "It's best to keep it that way. Surprise is our biggest advantage."

"So we just have to take out the gaurd quietly." d'Artagnan agreed next to the Spaniard. They were quiet for a moment. "I have an idea." He said slowly and turned on his side to smirk at Aramis.

"What?" Aramis worried at that look alone. She was no going to like this at all. Her eyes narrowed when d'Artagnan told them his grand plan and Porthos almost split her gut trying not to burst out laughing at the prospect.

"What? He's a guy. This'll work!" d'Artagnan was sure of it. Under different circumstances, he could totally go for Aramis.

"Oh, he's a real mans-man, alright!" Porthos gasped, finally able to get herself under control.

d'Artagnan furrowed his brows . "Wha—?!"

The two woman could see the instant he caught onto Porthos' meaning. "You don't mean...? You're jerking my chain!" he was sure.

"Naw." Porthos shook her head. "That's Meeqs, ain't it?"

Aramis nodded. "Real piece of work. So?" she raised a brow at d'Artagnan.

"No. I am not!" he protested as he realised the implication of that raised brow.

"It was your idea," she grinned, now that she wasn't the main player.

d'Artagnan made a face and shook his head. "I don't think this plan will work, we should come up with another one."

"Oh, no you don't!" Aramis disagreed. "This was you idea. And for lack of a better one, it's good."

She and Porthos shared a looked and before he knew it, the two women relieved him of his weapons belt, opened the collar further on his doublet, and mussed his dark locks lightly.

"Go get 'im, killer!" Porthos clapped him encouragingly on the back and pushed him from hiding and into the open.

"No. What? Wait!" he tried to dive back under cover, but it was too late.

"Oi! Who're you an' what are ye doin' out here, eh?"

He'd been spotted.

d'Artagnan swallowed and turned towards the bridge and his target. It was too late now, he was going to have to go through with the plan. _His_ brilliant plan, he remembered. This'll teach him to keep his mouth shut, especially when it backfired on him like this did. He was in it neck deep now.

Taking a deep breath, his loosened up and sauntered across to the bridge—a flirtatious smirk quirking his lips.

He didn't have much experience with this, he'd only ever slept with three women before, but he'd seen prostitutes before—even in Lupiac there was a scattered few at the inn.

He pushed the embarrassment from his head and just dived in head first—he'd kill the two Musketeers afterward.

"'Ow 'bout I take you fer a ride, big boy?"

"Eh?" Meeqs eyed him suspiciously, but with obvious lust.

"I'll do whatever you want for 50 _sous."_ He continued

"Ten _sous_ ," he said, licking his lips wetly.

d'Artagnan just nodded, feeling degraded beyond belief and allowed Meeqs to push him back against the railing of the bridge.

 _Where the hell were they?_ This had gone on long enough, they should have gone through with it by now. He honestly didn't know why he just wasn't knocking him out on his own. But when Meeqs groped him, the Gascon had enough and had a literal knee-jerk reaction.

The Red Guard grunt in pain. "Why ye—!"

All d'Artagnan could do was bear the sudden dead weight of Meeqs as he collapsed against him. He grunted at the weight and Porthos suddenly loomed out of the darkness in front of him.

"What took you so long?!" he hissed angrily.

"Oi!" a passing guard stalled the woman's response. "Let me get in on some o' that, eh, Meeqs?"

Hidden behind the bulk of both men, Porthos grabbed the dead man's arm and waved it in a come-off-it gesture towards the other guard.

"Whatever, you hog." And the second guard vanished with a chuckle and a scoff.

"Having fun with your new boyfriend, I see." Aramis appeared, grinning.

"Get him off me already!" he ground out through clenched teeth. The two Musketeers dumped the man over the side on the bridge and to the dried canal underneath. He took his belt and sword back from Aramis and he felt much less ruffled with its presence. "What took you so long?"

"It's a pretty long distance from there to here, I would say." Aramis said innocently and Porthos snickered.

He glared at her, not buying in in the least.

They made their way across the bridge and to a broken stone archway that lead right into the demon's den. Hidden in the shadows, between both woman, the three were unnoticed.

"That's Gaudet." Aramis pointed to a tall, broad-shouldered, clean-shaven man

His eyes alit on the man. This was the monster who had taken the young man's only family away from him, had torn his heart from his chest. d'Artagnan felt rage wash through like it was fresh. It had been nearly four days since Alexandre's murder, but it had done nothing to tamper his grief and anger.

He wondered why this man was still breathing.

"We still have the element of surprise—"

"GAUDET!" He screamed and ran from the shadows, straight into their camp. The Red Guard around the came shouted out the alarm and quickly took up arms, pistol fire sounding.

"Never mind." Aramis and Porthos returned fire.

All pistol fire spent, the two Musketeers charged into the fray.

d'Artagnan quickly dispatched the few men who dared get in his path to Gaudet, before he was finally about to force the scum in a duel.

"What do you want, boy?!" Gaudet demanded as the two circled each other.

"You killed my father!"

Gaudet laughed at him mockingly. "Did I, boy? Then he must have deserved it... just like you!"

d'Artagnan swung at him, anger fuelling his strikes and driving Gaudet backward, until he did a sloppy thrust, losing his upper hand and allowing the bastard to go on the attack. The only thing that kept d'Artagnan's arm from being cut open was his thick cloak, which more than hindered him as Gaudet ran as he righted himself and a faceless Red Guard was on him. A simple slash to the abdomen solved the problem and d'Artagnan immediately gave chase to the coward.

He was not letting the man get away!

Swords drawn, the women went their separate ways and started kicking ass—making the Red Guard wish they'd never messed with the Musketeers. They took no mercy on the men, because they deserved no mercy. Their near thirty men had nothing on these skilled women. Aramis was elegant, even as she slaughtered. And Porthos held nothing back in her brutal attacks.

d'Artagnan skidded around the corner of a broken down wall and slipped in the frozen mud in his hast—just as a musket fired. A swift throw of his main gauche ended his would be killer. He had no time to think on the close call as he jumped to his feet, grabbed his weapon embedded in the body, and continued his pursuit of Gaudet.

A huge, muscled man approached Porthos with a smug look. But the women grinned right back at him as they faced off. If he thought that he could beat her because she was smaller than him, he was going to be in for a surprise. Of course, he got in a few good punches that were enough to make her ears ring and ribs ache, but she made him bleed worse.

d'Artagnan finally caught up with Gaudet along the length of crumbled wall, exchanging a few strikes before he was on the run again.

Aramis almost felt a bit of concern as three men converged on her, but they lacked cohesion as a group in their attack, and that was what led to their downfall. She crossed herself, sending up a thankful prayer and grinned across the grounds when she caught sight of her friend. They clasped arms just as d'Artagnan and Gaudet circled back, duelling into the center of the ruins.

d'Artagnan had the upper hand once more, his slashed brutal and constant, driving the other man back. Gaudet managed to lock swords, but d'Artagnan quickly grabbed his sword-wrist, and drove his own hilted fist into the man's face, driving him to the ground. He snatched up the man's sword, and with a feral cry filled with hatred and grief, he drove the bladed X at the man's throat.

"d'Artagnan!" Aramis' cry barely stopped him. This bastard needed to be dead at his feet. "We need him."

Panting, anger still riding through him, blades still at Gaudet's neck as the man glared at him defiantly, Aramis slowly approached, locking eyes with him. It wasn't just about him and his grief and justice for his father's death—it was about freeing Athos for crimes that she did not commit.

d'Artagnan seethed at Gaudet and with another cry, he slashed the blades across one another at the man's throat. "You're not worth the mud on my boots. I would rather see you hang!" And much like Athos had done to him, d'Artagnan turned his back on Gaudet.

"Charlie!" Aramis cried out a warning.

d'Artagnan spun on his heel just as Gaudet was on him. There was a wet grunting sound as he was ran through and the two women rushed to them as the Gascon pushed the Guard Captain from him and he crumpled to the ground at their feet. Red blood blended cleanly with the red material of his uniform, blood streaked out the corners of his mouth.

"Are you injured?" Aramis questioned him, even as she checked him over. She saw no wounds with relief, for a second there, when she'd watched the together, fear had gripped her.

"Athos!" he gasped in horror, looking from Gaudet's body to Aramis next to him. Guilt ripped through d'Artagnan, feeling as if Gaudet had really run him through instead. The man was dead. He felt no satisfaction, just dread.

She sighed sadly and patted him consolingly on the back. "We'll think of something. There's still time."

"No. There isn't." He shook his head. "The time that it would take to get back to Paris and show the evidence to the magistrate to get the pardon... we'd make it just in time, but we don't even have the evidence anymore!"

A shrill whistle filled the air.

"Oi!" Porthos called.

Both d'Artagnan and Aramis looked across the yard in surprise, not even having noticed Porthos' movement. She stood by a wagon and held up what was clearly a Musketeer pauldron. "Reckon this will be worth Athos' innocence?"

"And then some! With Dujon's confession, that's all the proof we'll need." Aramis grinned. "We'd better hurry." She wrapped a reassuring arm around the taller lad. "Nothing's over until we say so."

And he believed her.

* * *

"Don't shoot! I have her release, signed by the King!"

Athos was weak-kneed as Aramis pulled the hood that had kept her blind, from her head and the shackles around her wrists were unlocked. But she straightened her back and put her shoulders back as she looked into her friend's brown eyes. "And here I was, thinking I'd be rid of you this time." She remarked plainly.

"Not on your life, mate!" Porthos called, next to Aramis.

The pause in her step was hardly noticeable as she spotted d'Artagnan at the bottom of the stairs—he was the last person who she expected to see. She shot Aramis a look, who returned it with one of her own that promised to spill the beans at a later time before she headed up the stairs.

Athos and d'Artagnan locked eyes for a moment, and it was almost as if that single look said it all. She gave him a solemn nod, which he returned, and she went up the stairs and to her freedom. He smiled and followed after the three women.

As much as she wanted to go to the nearest tavern and drink after her near-execution, and not face the past that her imprisonment had dug up, she knew she had to report back to Treville and it would be a long night before her friends left her alone.

It was back at the garrison, after her meeting with Treville, that the four of them sat at the table near the kitchens in the yard.

Aramis already knew what the other woman wanted with thatsingle look her way. "It was Gaudet." She answered the silent question.

"Ugh! That cross-dressing rat!" Athos cursed in disgust—of all the people it could have been!

"I don't understand." d'Artagnan confessed. "Why he would target you like this in the first place?"

Aramis and Porthos shared an amused look and Athos glared at them as she caught it. Now that the woman was safe and sound, surely it was alright...

"You mean other than being a Musketeer and the Captain's second?" Aramis mused, a devilish look in her brown eyes.

"Keep your thoughts to yourself." Athos said through gritted teeth.

"What is it?" d'Artagnan wondered, looking between the trio, two-thirds amused, on-third not in the least.

"Athos 'ere got right pissed one night an' shagged 'im!" Porthos boomed, laughing.

d'Artagnan sputtered on his drink.

"Porthos!" Athos gave her a harsh look.

He looked at Athos and couldn't believe it. She must have drunken all the spirits in Paris to be so inebriated that she could even look at a man like Gaudet and not feel sick. He didn't know Athos well, but he was already sure that this was not a frequent occurrence. Maybe that was why Porthos and Aramis were milking it so hard.

Porthos looked nonplussed as she shrugged her broad shoulders. "'E totally fell in love with 'er." Athos' shame and anger continued to boil. "Came 'ere to th' garrison with flowers an' everythin'. Better than any play I've ever seen, that's for sure! When she was done with 'im, 'is face was purple from the embarrassment and anger. I wasn't sure who t' feel more sorry for—" She shook her head.

"The things she said!" Aramis grinned.

"Like what?" d'Artagnan prompted.

Athos groaned. "Why do you insist on telling him all of this? The matter's closed, Gaudet's dead. We should all just put this sorry event behind us." She ran her hand through her long locks in frustration.

"'E's part of th' group now!" Porthos said.

"And he was going to find out anyways," Aramis continued reasonably. "So it might as well be from us, who will give him the accurate—albeit sordid—affair details. You know how the guys are around here, gossiping ninnies."

"Yeah," Athos deadpanned, "And I'm looking at their leaders right now."

"So," Aramis continued cheerfully, looking back at d'Artagnan across the table from her and ignored Athos, "It was mid-day and everyone was in the yard practising. It wasn't hard to miss the sudden appearance of a Red Guard. It got quiet and every man just stopped practice—"

"I'm not listening to this again." Athos muttered darkly and left the table.

d'Artagnan looked after her in concern, but Porthos drew his attention back. "'E looked nervous as a little lad, but any man would concerin' Athos, and as a Red Guard should walking into the belly of the King's Musketeers. An' calls: I'm looking for Athos. Not unlike you, lad." She chuckled, "If it weren't for th' pistol in your hands, we'd of thought you were another of 'er conquests, eh?"

d'Artagnan's cheeks couldn't help but gain a twinge of warmth at the suggestion. When he'd come charging into the garrison that day, he believed it was to confront the man that murdered his father. If he had any notion that Athos was a woman, he might've gone about the whole thing differently.

"Athos' jaw practically drops to th' ground when she notices 'im. And you know her, nothin' get's past that hard exterior of hers—but this was th' last thing she expected, none of us would have. Expression sourer than a barrel o' lemons, she sees 'im, sees th' flowers—and goes ballistic! Th' other Musketeers start snickering as they realize what's happenin'. She storms up to 'im and tears the flowers from 'is hands and stomps 'em like they was rude to 'er mother... and she says—"

 _!sploosh!_

 _"Oi!" "Hey!_ Porthos and Aramis both exclaimed in shock and surprise as they jumped to their feet, soaking wet.

"I warned you, didn't I?" Athos said, holding a now empty water bucket.

"You could 'ave just said somethin'!" Porthos protested, grumbling about her lovely outfit.

Athos glowered at the pair. "You're lucky this is all I've done. Next time, I won't be so generous with the contents."

d'Artagnan couldn't help but laugh good-naturedly as the two women trod away to see about drying off, the other scattered Musketeers sent them amused looks that were quickly quelled by the women's deathly glares.

"I'm never going to here the end of that story, am I?" even as he asked it and knew the answer, he didn't much care. The man that caused him and Athos' problems were now gone. d'Artagnan had avenged his father's death, and Athos was thankfully saved from the firing squad.

"Am I going to have refill this bucket?" she inquired as she sat on the bench next to him.

"No, ma'am!" he held up his hands in surrender and gave a small smile. "I like being dry just fine, thank you."

"Good." She paused. "Listen, I never really got to thank you for the part you played in killing Gaudet and finding the evidence to prove my innocence."

"Athos," he shook his head. "It was what any man would have done. It was the right thing to do."

"That's just it," she disagreed, "I don't know many people who would have tried to help the person who they though killed someone they loved." A broken look flashed through her blue eyes for a second before she was able to push it away. "I wouldn't have."

He couldn't testify to that, even though his automatic response was to deny that conviction, but he'd seen the grief that had flashed in her eyes and she'd lost someone very close her as well and that anguish was unpredictable. "I'm just glad to be of service." He whispered.

"We'll make a Musketeer out of you yet, d'Artagnan." She said quietly.

His chest felt warm at the Musketeer's words and realized that it was the feeling of his shattered heart starting to piece itself together, as he started his new life with the Inseparables as its centerpiece. He didn't know when he'd come to this conclusion, of staying—it might have been when he was out with Aramis and Porthos searching for evidence of Athos' innocence, or it might have been back at the Chatalet after Athos had been pardoned—but it just seemed right.

"d'Artagnan!"

Both he and Athos looked to the balcony to see Captain Treville at the railing, his order clear. d'Artagnan glanced at the woman next to him, who gave him a small nod and the Gascon rose and climbed the stairs to meet the man.

"Captian Treville, sir." He nodded respectfully to the older man.

"d'Artagnan," he said. "The Inseparables told me that your help in the investigation in Athos' innocence was exceptional."

"I assisted in what way I could. Though selfishly, in the beginning, it was for my own gain. I wanted the murderer of my father. But Athos was innocent, and she didn't deserve what was happening to her. So my effort doubled in regards to her." He didn't want to be deceitful and lie, and he didn't want to take credit where it wasn't due.

Trevilled sensed that about the lad easily enough and it was something that he could respect.

Aramis and Porthos returned to the table, but this time they came bearing gifts in the shape of a bottle of wine and four cups—Athos seemed to forgive them pretty easily after that.

"It takes a different kind of man to survive among those three," he said. "They're no angels, son."

"But they are, sir." He contradicted the man, looking over the railing at the gathered women. "These women are warrior angels, and they're beautiful."

Trevilled looked at d'Artagnan with a raised brow, before he looked down at his three best soldiers, and he could agreed to at least half of what the lad was saying. "Don't let them hear you say that," he advised, because whether he wanted it or not, the Gascon appeared to be sticking around. "They'll eat you alive—because most days, they do that to my own sanity."

Treville returned to his office and d'Artagnan tromped down that stairs and back to the table. He'd seen what Porthos and Aramis were capable of, he'd fought with Athos—he definitely wasn't going to tell the three women about his sentiments concerning them.

"What was that about, Charlie?" Aramis asked as he sat back down next to Athos.

"Can you stop calling me that, already?" he groaned. "I'm far from ten—"

"You sure about that?" Porthos laughed. "You look hardly that to me!"

d'Artagnan ignored her outright. "It's hardly my name anyways. Just call me d'Artagnan, please?"

Aramis laughed good-naturedly. "Sorry. But now that you so clearly told me how much it bugs you, that's hardly going to happen."

He glowered at her, but to them, it looked more like a pout. And it wasn't anger in his eyes, more like annoyance and the threat of a returned favour. Somehow, some when, the Inseparables gained a little brother, and he, three big sisters. This was his new family, his new home. And he was going to fight tooth and nail to keep them safe, whether they knew it or not.

* * *

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

 _So? What do you think of the Inseparables as women? Nothing much has changed, huh? I was thinking of maybe doing something similar with each episode for season 1, seeing as I just got the season on DVD—tell me what you think. :)_

y


	2. Pursuit 2: Slight of Hand

**a/n:**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own the Musketeers, just gonna borrow them and their adventures.**

 **Episode Tag:** _Season 1, Episode 2: Slight of Hand._

* * *

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

 **Charl(i)es' Angels!**  
 **Pursuit 2:** _Slight of Hand_

"You sure you're up for this?" Athos questioned quietly, standing in front of the Gascon, making sure the young man was focused on her and not the few men gathered farther down the road.

d'Artagnan scoffed, his doublet discard, and dressed in his simple shirt sleeves. "What are you talking about? Of course I can handle this guy."

She narrowed her blue eyes on his. "Don't get cocky, d'Artagnan. Get in and get out—nothing more."

He groaned quietly at the coddling. "I know, I know." He took a breath, and straightened under the Musketeer's stare. "I have this, Athos." This was more than just a duel, he knew.

Athos searched his brown gaze for a moment, wondering not for the first time, how big of a mistake this was to involve d'Artagnan, but it was too late now. She inclined her head gravely in response.

d'Artagnan passed her his left-hand glove and Athos made her way to the middle-even between the two opponents.

"You've got this, Charlie!" Aramis said encouragingly from behind him, grasping both his shoulders companionably.

"Thanks," he said, unsheathing his rapier and slashing the air in front of him for a bit of warm-up in the cold air. "And I'll let that go—for now." He indicated the name.

Aramis chuckled and let his shoulders go with a pat. "You're always so good to me."

"Watch out, 'e'll strike when you're least expectin' it." Porthos warned her. "I'll be happily watching an' waitin' for the happy moment!"

Aramis ignored her and said to him, "What's the most vital thing to remember in a duel?"

He didn't have to think before he answered. "Honour."

"Wrong!" Porthos smacked him on the back of the head and he shot her a look. "Not getting' killed, right? Bitin', kickin', gougin'—it's all good."

He wasn't so sure about that, even as Aramis nodded along. "I was raised to fight like a gentlemen."

"Were you meant to die young?" she countered, "'Cause that's what'll happen. You think 'e's a gentlemen?" she looked across at his opponent.

"So, you want me to fight dirty?" he shook his head.

"We want you to fight _smart_." Aramis countered.

d'Artagnan took a deep breath and narrowed his eyes, as the man started running through the thin layer of snow, even before Athos signalled the start of the duel. He only managed to take a couple long strides forward, pulling his main gauche before the man was on him. Several quick strikes and he was relieved of the long dagger.

d'Artagnan backed a couple quick steps away from the two women and the man, back towards Athos, blocked a sword strike and punched the man. But the elbow he got to the face in return was more effective, putting him on his knees. He held his sword over his head to block the heavy downward stroke, but the man quickly aimed a kick to the side of his head—which he got his arm up just in time to stave off any severe damage. On his back now, he quickly rolled from the cheap foot-stomp.

d'Artagnan decided to take Porthos' advice—he was in a bind after all. This guy was fast, and he came hard. It was more of a challenge than the Gascon predicted. Though he didn't have much experience with fighting actual duels. His first opponent had been Athos, after all. His first killing, the man in the barn at the inn where his father was murdered.

His foot shut up as the guy made to impale him on the ground and his boot landed at the man's family jewels and he doubled over in pain, stumbling back. d'Artagnan quickly took the opportunity to jump to his feet.

"Nothing personal, mate." He said as the man clutched himself, feeling sympathy pains himself. But this was business. It was him, or the other guy _—_ and no offence to the other guy, d'Artagnan just liked himself a bit better, was all.

"I taught 'im that move!" Porthos said proudly.

"Being a man, I don't think he's likely to forget." Aramis said.

 _Oh, yeah_. d'Artagnan remembered that day well, and he wasn't like to forget it:

 _The four of them had been in the garrison's yard, and while all the other Musketeers trained, Porthos offered to teach him some hand-to-hand fighting techniques. d'Artagnan had instantly accepted. He had honestly thought his days would be jam-packed full of adventure, sword-fights, mission_ _s_ _and justice_ — _but it had been almost two weeks and Captain Treville had yet to give his three best any missions since the Gascon had decided to stay in Paris and become a Musketeer himself. He needed something to get his heart pounding and his blood pumping, otherwise he'd start pulling his hair_ _—_ _or worse, theirs. And if he knew anything about women, you didn't do that_ _—_ _especially when they were as skilled with swords and manner of all else as the Inseparables._

 _"You ready for this?" Porthos wondered,_ _relinquishing_ _her weapons belt to Aramis, d'Artagnan doing the same. It had been such a long time since someone had faced her so willingly_

 _d'Artagnan laughed at the question, his knees bent and arms in front of him. "Just come at me, already."_

 _"He sure has a death wish," Aramis said aside to Athos, amused._

 _"Don't we all?" Athos sat back._

 _He never fought a woman before, never had the occasion. But who knew what his days would hold now, what_ _villains_ _he might face in his undertaking to become a Musketeer_ _?_ _He would need to be prepared for all possible outcomes_ — _he just wished that he knew what was in store for him, a couple minutes from now. Maybe, he would have done things differently with his life..._

 _Porthos wasn't afraid to go straight at him head-on, and he braced himself for the impact as he turned slightly to the side. She caught him around the middle, and jerked him to the side_ _—_ _something he hadn't quite been expecting_ _—_ _and he stumbled._

 _It a_ _surprise_ _move, he grabbed her behind the_ _left_ _knee and jerked it up, his hand at her opposite shoulder pushing down, and he_ _ploughed_ _her to the ground. She grunted lightly at the_ _impacted_ _._

 _He couldn't believe it, he'd gotten the woman on the ground. But Porthos didn't seem so upset, in fact, she was grinning up at him wickedly. "The fights not over just yet, lad!" and she drew back her knee._

 _He knew it was too good to be true, he wasn't going to let his_ _guard_ _down when they fought like this ever again_ —b _ecause,_ _he realized too late, that she had let him take her down._

 _d'Artagnan had never felt pain so sharp in his life. It was like his heart stopped beating, like time itself stopped moving. He thought he might have blacked out, because the next time he was coherent_ _,_ _he found_ _himself_ _on his back, blinking up on the sky, three beautiful women looking down at him with a mixture of amused concern._

 _"What happened?"_ _he croaked._

 _"Porthos! You broke him," Aramis admonished jokingly, " And we just got him, too!" d'Artagnan bit back a whimper as he let the Spaniard pull him to his feet._

 _"Did not!"_ _said_ _wom_ _a_ _n protested. "Lookit 'im, right as rain."_

 _Porthos made to pat him consolingly on the back and he couldn't stopped the flinch. She stilled for a second at his reaction and the heat of embarrassment on his face, and boomed out laughing._

 _He jumped sky-high for the rest of the day every time Porthos made any sudden moves, and she wasn't afraid to make a game out of it._ _Yes, it was not likely he would forget it._

This time, as the man straightened, d'Artagnan went on the attack, sick of defending.

He lunged, blocked, lunged, blocked, struck, circled, blocked, struck, struck, struck, blocked. And then he pulled a three-sixty, putting power behind his sword, his feet leaving the ground, he hit the man with a powerful slash that disarmed him and laid him out.

"Lay down your weapons!"

"Red Guards." Porthos cursed.

"Red Guards!" Aramis sounded the alarm.

Every man and woman scatter, the Inseparables heading one way, the other men another. d'Artagnan was about to follow his Angels, when he doubled back for his fallen main gauche, but the five Red Guards on horseback cut him off from following the Musketeers, and he was forced to retreat in another direction.

He knew there was no way that he would be able to outrun men on horseback, but he wasn't going to just let himself be arrest. So he raced through the snow like the devil was on his tail—and in some ways, it was.

Athos, Aramis and Porthos stopped as they realized their friend wasn't with them and saw him racing through the sparse wood with four Red Guard on his heels.

"There's nothing we can do for him." Athos said gravely, her eyes narrowed in worry. It really was truly too late now.

Porthos sighed. "No point in all of us gettin' arrested."

"He knows the Musketeer motto," Aramis agreed heavily, "'Every woman for herself!' Or something along those lines." she clapped the two women on the back and didn't see a point a sticking around. The others soon followed quickly.

And Red Guard cantered beside him, and d'Artagnan glanced up just in time for the man's heavy boot to catch him in the ribs, sending him tumbling into the snow and leaves. He quickly got back onto his feet as the five Red Guard formed a moving circle around him.

"You're under arrest for illegal duelling." The leader claimed, reigning in his mount beside d'Artagnan, where kicked the young man in the center of the chest, forcing him again to the ground.

 _This was going to be fun_ , the Gascon thought. He wanted excitement, and now he was to have it.

They bound his wrists tightly with ropes and tied him to the back of one of the horses. And he was dragged back into town and to the Chatelet.

"Say hello to your new neighbour, Vadim." The jailer said, shoving d'Artagnan to the filthy ground of the cell by the barred door. He locked the shackled around his wrists and pummelled him with a makeshift club, leaving him groaning before slamming the door shut and locking him in.

And so it began.

* * *

Treville gathered the Musketeers in the yard, the Inseparables front and center as he dressed the three women down.

"You all knew the penalty for duelling, yet you let d'Artagnan go ahead. Regardless."

"I don't like this," Aramis murmured aside to Porthos. "I've never been unpopular before."

"Did any of you think at all?" Treville asked.

"Try tradin' places with me," Porthos muttered, gaze straight ahead.

Aramis glanced at her. "But you're used to it." Porthos shot her a scowl. "I'm more the romantic hero type." Now it was a look of disgust.

Porthos could have said a few this on that subject-line, but Treville's approached stopped her—probably for the best.

Treville stepped up to Aramis, his expression anything but amused. "d'Artagnan is in prison because of you. _Alone_." She looked down in shame.

Trevilled stepped in front of Porthos. " _Friendless_." He moved to Athos on the other side of her. " _Condemned_. I hope you're very proud!" Athos remained stone-faced. Treville turned from them in disgust. "Dismissed!" he shouted, heading up the stairs back to his office.

The other Musketeers dispersed, shoving shoulders with the three of them in passing. The three women shared looks. It had been hard enough to gain the respect of their fellow Musketeers, being women, and now this...

When the yard cleared, the three quickly made their way to Treville's office and shut the door.

They let out a collective breath.

"Congratulations!" Treville nodded. "You had me convinced. And I knew the whole this was a charade." Still, the three didn't look happy at all. He sat behind his desk with a sigh. "d'Artagnan was taken to the Chatelet at 10:00 this morning. He's awaiting execution, at His Majesty's pleasure."

The line of Athos' mouth hardened. There was nothing pleasurable about this. "I still think one of us should have went in." She said.

Treville shook his head. "It wouldn't have worked. d'Artagnan's less conspicuous just by being a man. As well, the three of you are too known in Paris. Vadim would be too suspicious from the start."

Athos knew that was true, but that didn't change her feelings. While she knew the good that d'Artagnan had done his first days in Paris, proving Gaudet's guilt and her own innocence, she couldn't stop the dread and unease in the pit of her stomach—the ones that she would like nothing more that to drown in wine. But drinking was the last thing that she should be doing right now.

"We certainly fooled the rest of the men." Aramis scoffed in distaste. "They hate us."

Porthos paced, her guilt clear. "They think we betrayed a friend." She shook her head in self-disgust. "It makes me sick."

"Provoking a duel was a brilliant idea." Treville countered their melancholy. "The world had to believe that d'Artagnan's arrest was genuine."

"He's a Gascon farm boy," Athos replied harshly. "There's too much at stake."

Aramis and Porthos looked at the woman in surprise.

"You've seen him," Aramis protested. "He's a good fighter."

"This isn't about fighting." She snapped.

"He has to prove himself sometime," Treville interupted as Aramis and Porthos glared at Athos with heat, while she gave them a cold stare in return. "So why not now?"

"I think 'e can do it." Porthos said firmly. "I'm a pretty good judge of character."

Aramis snorted at that last bit, though she believed very much in the first. "You're a terrible judge of character, especially when you're sober."

"Not 'bout this! You know I'm right."

"Enough." _Sometimes they were worse than men_ , Treville thought. He continued once all eyes were on him. He knew they weren't going to like what he was going to say next, but that was what being Captain meant sometimes. "Vadim stole enough gunpowder to start a small war. Where is it? What's he planning? Where are his men? If d'Artagnan can bring us the answers, then his life is worth the risk."

Athos bit her tongue to keep her sharp denial quiet, because she knew that it was the truth. Any of their lives would be worth that information. Women, men, if didn't matter—they were Musketeers, and d'Artagnan would become one. It was their duty and their honour.

"Tomorrow is Good Friday," Treville continued, "The Queen pardons a few deserving prisoners at this time every year. I've put you all on her guard detail. You can check on him then." He looked at each of them before dismissing the women. They filed out with slumped shoulders, but being allowed to see d'Artagnan tomorrow was a weight lightened of worry.

* * *

d'Artagnan tried not to let it get to him, he'd only been in the cell half a day. He had more important things to do than allow fear to creep in at what might happen to him if something beyond his, and the Musketeers', control occurred. He needed to get the information about that stolen gunpowder, _that_ was what he was here to do.

He glanced over at the man and watched as he flipped a coin deftly through the fingers on his left hand. A dry smirked tugged at the corner of the man's mouth as he caught the Gascon's curious gaze and showed him his hand. Flipping the coin into his palm several times, turning his hand, he finally clenched the coin and when he turned his palm up and opened it, the coin had vanished.

"How did you do that?" d'Artagnan had been keeping a close eye on it, but he saw nothing that could explain away the magic—even as he knew it was slight of hand, he couldn't help but wonder.

"The secret to a good trick? Make people look the wrong way." It was the first time that Vadim had spoken to him since he arrived. And then he brandished the coin at the tips of his right-hand fingers with a sly smile.

The jailer came it with two bowls of food, first setting one on the ground for Vadim and then d'Artagnan. The Gascon picked it up and looked at the contents with disgust. "Erm... what is this?" He picked up the rotting body of a mouse from the stew by its tail.

"Mutton stew."

He scoffed. "Mutton is the one that goes _baa_ and had wool on it."

Jailer kicked the bowl from his hands, spilling the contents across the floor. d'Artagnan didn't feel much at its loss; he wouldn't have ate it anyways—he wasn't _that_ hungry yet. He quickly put his arms up to protect himself, curling against the bars as the jailer came at him with that club of his.

"You can starve for all I care, Musketeer!" he sneered, locking the door before he disappeared down the hall.

d'Artagnan silently cursed. As much as he might have been proud to be called or considered a Musketeer, now was the time that he least needed to be associated with that title. The whole point of him volunteering for this mission (other than being male and wanting to prove himself), was because he wasn't known, nor a Musketeer.

"I'm no Musketeer." d'Artagnan told Vadim. He made sure to show contempt, even when he only for respect for Treville, the Inseparables and the other Musketeer men. "They betrayed me and I hate them for it."

Vadim said nothing, but turned his back on the Gascon and d'Artagnan cursed his bad luck. It was going to be even harder now that Vadim would associate him with the Musketeers. He needed that information!

* * *

Constance arrived at the garrison with her husband, who met with Treville about cloth and she instantly confronted the three women.

"A beautiful morning, _Madame_ Bonacieux!" Aramis greeted, with faux cheerfulness.

"I doubt it looks so good from inside the Chatelet prison." She returned coldly.

"You've heard about d'Artagnan?" Athos said.

"You know, th' story is greatly exaggerated." Porthos tried to smooth over the obvious rift.

"Really?" she replied. "I was told you led him into danger and then abandoned him."

"That one's 'bout right." she hung her head.

"He's you're friend, or so I thought after all that he did for you. So what are you going to do about it?"

"We've been getting along well, but I wouldn't say we're friends, exactly." Aramis lied to her, they had to keep up the charade, no matter how much it felt a betrayal towards d'Artagnan's friendship.

Constance's beautiful face tightened with fury and she didn't hesitate in slapping the woman in front of her. "He trusted you!"

Her husband Bonacieux raced down the steps. "My most humble apologies, mademoiselle! I cannot think what came over her."

Aramis shook her head. "You're wife's actions were fully justified, _Monsieur_. It is I who should apologize."

Bonacieux grabbed Constance's arm and dragged her, tight-lipped, from the garrison.

Aramis sighed and looked after them, feeling a bit bad and something else that wasn't entirely appropriate given the situation. "God," she touched her stinging cheek. "I love that in a women."

"What? Passion?" Porthos asked.

She grinned over her shoulder at the other woman. "Violence."

"Easy, tiger." Porthos shook her head. "She's taken." Though whether she was referring to the woman's husband exactly, or d'Artagnan, was in question.

"A girl can imagine." She sighed, she'd never step on their friend's toes like that. His affection for the married woman was clear, even after this short time.

* * *

Vadim dropped to the ground and started to seize. Panic took d'Artagnan and his heart leapt into his throat. If Vadim died, then all of this would be for nothing. They would have no more leads towards the stolen gunpowder, and it would only be a matter of time before Vadim's second used it for whatever destruction in his name.

He yelled desperately for the jailer and it felt like forever before the man was annoyed enough to come to their shared cell.

About to chew d'Artagnan a new one, he stopped when he noticed Vadim convulsing on the ground. "What's wrong with 'im?"

"Can't you see he's having a fit? Help him!" d'Artagnan's hands clenched around the metal bars.

"He's probably faking it." The jailer muttered and opened the cell warily.

Vadim suddenly stopped and was very still and d'Artagnan held his breath as the jailer nudged him with his boot, pushing the still man onto his back. "Well, that takes care of that." He bent down, a grin on his lips as he retrieved Vadim's fallen coin and turned to leave.

d'Artagnan filled with dread. It was over. He was dead and it was over—

"Of course I was faking it, you idiot." Vadim sat up. The jailer spun around in surprise, coin clenched in his hand. "Missing something?" Vadim shook the Chatelet key ring at the other man before he punched him hard enough to knock him out cold. Taking his coin back, he stepped over the unconscious man and out the cell.

"Wait!" d'Artagnan cried and Vadim paused to look at him. "Take me with you, I can help." He said desperately. He couldn't let Vadim get away and be left locked up. He told Athos and the others that he could handle this. Athos might've tried to tell him that it was 'Musketeers Business', but that didn't change the fact that it would be made Paris' problem when Vadim decided to use that gunpowder. "I will do whatever you want!"

He held his breath as the man considered.

"Ch. Alright, then." Vadim let him out.

He followed close behind the man dim passageway, passed cells. "Hey! Come on, Vadim! Don't leave us in here!"

When Vadim tossed d'Artagnan the keys and told him to release the other prisoners, though filled with dread, the Gascon couldn't refuse. He knew the man didn't make the choice because of a soft heart. One massive prison break would be a good distraction for them to slip away in.

They passed a door, just as it opened and Athos stood in the doorway. Prisoners instantly crowded her, and her and d'Artagnan locked surprised gazes for an instant before Athos had to act. "Come on!" d'Artagnan pulled Vadim away.

 _What was Athos doing there? Was she insane? It could blow the whole mission!_

* * *

 _What the hell did d'Artagnan think he was doing?_ "Escape!" Athos shouted, backing-up despite her wanting to charge into the mass. This was definitely the last thing they needed, nor she expected. What the hell was d'Artagnan thinking?! "Escape!"

The small courtyard, where the Inseparables, Treville, a few more Musketeers, some Red Guards and the Queen were was soon crowded, overflowing with prisoners.

"Protect the Queen!" Treville shouted, expending his pistol shot.

It was chaos. Pistol fire, the clang of swords, the cries cut off in death. It was amidst this that Vadmin managed to kill a Musketeer and grab the Queen.

Everything instantly stilled.

It felt wrong to d'Artagnan, to be standing next to Vadim while he held the Queen and do nothing about it. "Open the gate, and let us leave and the Queen will be unharmed!" Vadim shouted, the barrel of his stolen pistol against her temple, his arm wrapped around her chest.

d'Artagnan locked eyes with Treville, the only one in his line of sight and one that could give the order, and gave a firm, but subtle nod. Allowing the criminal to leave was the last thing that the Captain wanted to do, especially after assaulting the Queen like this, but he had little option.

"Do it! Open the gate!"

The Red Guard did as ordered after a moments hesitation, and d'Artagnan glanced behind them to see a few men on the bridge, accompanied by a couple riderless horses. "If you kill the Queen, they'll shoot us all dead." d'Artagnan hissed to the man when Vadim didn't let the Queen go.

"No hard feelings, My Queen." He kissed her temple and shoved her away. "Let's go!" he jumped onto the horse and the Gascon quickly mounted the second mare.

d'Artagnan and Vadim disappeared from sight on horseback and gunfire instantly erupted in the courtyard again, everyone having time to reload on the pause. The Queen was stranded in the center, with nowhere to go, fear freezing her feet.

Aramis instantly zoned in on the woman and ran through the musket balls to get to her. Protect-the-Queen! the only thing on her mind. Royalty or not, she was a sucker for a woman in distress. Aramis pulled her to the ground and shielded her with her body. She could feel the Queen's frantic breath on her neck.

"I have you, Your Majesty."

Queen Anne made a small noise in the back of her throat, and gave a small jerky nod. Aramis turned her head slightly and looked the woman in the eyes. This close, the Musketeer could see the gold flecks in her irises. And it was like the fighting around them, faded.

Anne's breath slowed as Aramis' soft brown gaze stole the fear from her. She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt this safe—like how she wished she could feel in the King's arms, but doubted that she ever could.

"You're safe." Aramis whispered, her fingertips lightly brushed down her temple and cheek.

"Yes." She gasped.

"Send men after them!" Treville shouted. "See to the wounded! What the hell is your boy thinking, Athos?"

"I know as much as you do, sir." Athos answered in a tight voice that clearly bellied her anger.

And it was like reality snapped back into focus for the pair. "Are you alright?" Aramis sat up, her arm still wrapped around the Queen.

She nodded, then paused. "You're hurt." Aramis stilled as Anne reached with delicate fingers and carefully touched the side of her jaw.

"Nothing but a scratch, My Queen." Aramis gently took her hand.

Their gazes held again, and Aramis lost herself in it for too long a moment.

"Aramis!" Porthos called. "The Queen?"

The two quickly pulled apart.

"I am fine, thank you." Anne replied and Aramis helped her to her feet again.

"Your Majesty," Treville and Athos approached the three. "I apologize—Aramis and Porthos will escort you back to the Palace immediately if you are able."

Anne nodded. "That would be much appreciated, Captain." Still the picture of elegance and control, with a ring of Musketeers around her, the Queen left the Chatelet and its gruesome scene behind, but not the spark for the Musketeer woman who had protected her so.

* * *

"Tell me, kid—are you a Musketeer spy?"

"I've already told you—I'm not!" d'Artagnan seethed, pushing the fear of losing a finger down as he looked Vadim straight in the eye, his second with an arm wrapped around his throat.

"He's lyin'!" Felix said.

"Nah. I know a man's true nature by looking him in the eyes." Vadim removed his shackles instead of his finger. "I've never been wrong."

"But—"

"I said he's okay!"

Felix gave him a warning squeeze before he let go of his throat rough with a growl. d'Artagnan rubbed his wrists as the man sent a scathing glare his way as he crossed the room of Vadim's hideout. Vadim seemed to have accepted him into his group, but it was the man's second that d'Artagnan knew he was going to have to keep an eye open for when he slept.

He hoped that his friends were alright, but he was going to have to wait for his chance to slip away and meet up with them.

* * *

The Queen bid them to wait while she cleaned up from the encounter at the prison.

Porthos glanced at Aramis and the pleased curve at the corner of her lips. "The way I see it, the Queen 'ill probably be grateful, you saved her life..."

"But we did put her in danger in the first place." Aramis countered in amusement. "She might want to see us whipped!"

Porthos shot her a startled look, "I hadn't though o' that." She became down trodden. "Oh, see, you've upset me now."

Aramis pursed her lips to keep from laughing and she was saved when Anne returned to the two waiting Musketeers with her Ladies-in-waiting. Porthos bowed at the waist, but Aramis not half as much as she met the blonde's eyes.

"Aramis, bravest of all the King's Musketeers, and my saviour!" the Queen smiled and Aramis beamed at her.

Porthos gave a heavy internal sigh. Of course, she shouldn't have expected anything different. This always seemed to happen when it was just the two of them. She'd long ago come to accept it. She couldn't hate Aramis for her charming charisma—but couldn't help but wonder if things might've been different if she'd shielded the Queen instead. Guess they'd never find out.

"Only amongst the bravest. It's an honour for you to say, My Queen." Aramis doffed her hat and bowed. "I hope that I was not too rough with Her Majesty."

Anne shook her head, her eyes bright. "No. You saved my life. In thanks, I want to bestow upon you this Crucifix. It helped me through trying times, and now it shall do the same to you and keep you safe." She removed the pendant from around her own delicate neck and put it around Aramis'.

"Your Majesty, I don't know what to say—my deepest gratitude. I shall treasure it and keep it forever by my heart." Aramis pressed the cross to her lips.

Porthos groaned internally, cursing as she watched Aramis and the Queen speak. How close they were standing, their soft voices, and damn Aramis' smouldering eyes and their come-hither call.

Aramis was like a sexual lure and even the strongest and noblest couldn't help but fall victim.

A warm glow to her cheeks, the Queen thanked the two of them this time and took her leave, her Ladies following.

There was a skip in Aramis' step as the left the Palace and returned to their horses ,that Porthos didn't trust in the least as she fingered the Cross around her throat—the _Queen's_ Cross.

"Tell me I did no' see that?" Porthos questioned Aramis as they rode back to the garrison from the Palace.

"What are you talking about?"

"You 'ave a penchant for seein' people that you shouldn't." Porthos pointed out to her.

Aramis scoffed, "That is severely untrue."

She shook her head. "What 'bout Adele? She was th' Cardinal's mistress."

"What of her?" Aramis glared, hating that she brung up Adele—a fresh wound. "She choose him and his country residence over me, so I don't know what your problem is."

"My problem—an' _you're_ problem—is that this is seriously over the line Aramis. She's the _Queen_. You shouldn't even be thinkin' about it, let alone flashin' 'er the eyes?"

"I was flashing her no such thing."

"You were. I could practically feel th' heat all the way across the room."

"Don't be ridiculous!"

"Keep it in your pants, then—for all of our sakes. Crossin' the Cardinal was bad enough, but the _Queen?_ " she hissed.

Aramis sighed. "Even if I was thinking about it, nothing would come of it." Her thumb brushed against the side of the cross that the Queen had given her.

Porthos kept herself from speaking because from where she was, it was almost pretty damn obvious that the Queen was snagged on Aramis' line. She didn't want to have to tell Athos, but she would if she had to—for Aramis' sake. She just hoped that the Spaniard was smart about this, because it definitely wasn't her head (and sometimes even her heart) that led her into many women's and men's beds.

* * *

"What took you so long?" Athos questioned as the two Inseparables finally returned to the garrison and dismounted.

"The Queen wanted to bestow a gift upon 'er brave saviour." Porthos rolled her eyes.

Athos turned a raised brow on the Spaniard.

"What can I say?" Aramis shrugged. "You're looking at the bravest of the King's Musketeers."

Porthos snorted. "Next time, I'll tack'll th' Queen to the ground, eh?"

"No way! She needs a gentle touch, not your monstrous strength." Aramis shook her head.

Porthos glared at her and took a step to. "You callin' me a monster, mate?"

"Cut it out!" Athos snapped. "Now is not the time for who's-the-prettiest. We have no idea where Vadim is, or what the hell d'Artagnan was thinking. Treville's pissed, so if either of you want to tell him the next time that we still have nothing, then I suggest you think of something!"

The two women instantly cut off their argument. It wasn't every day that Athos snapped like that. They knew she was worried about the Gascon as much as they were, not to mention the threat of possible bombs around Paris.

"We can asked around, but I don't think there's much we can do but wait until Charlie can reach out to us and tell us what's going on." Aramis said.

Porthos groaned. "Waitin's the worst part."

Usually a patient woman (or at least at exuding an outside calm), Athos couldn't help but agree with the other woman. She hated the uncertainty, she despised the distracting worry. She needed to trust the Gascon, she just wished it wasn't such a high-risk and uncertain mission. There wasn't supposed to be a prison a break, this was all supposed to be a one-act scene—but now it was a moving production.

* * *

d'Artagnan had been on edge the whole day, wanting nothing more than to track down the Inseparables and tell the women what he had learned since his imprisonment and now escape with Vadim.

But he had to exude a patience that was far from his usual MO, and hold back the urge to cuss out Felix. But that night, with Felix sound asleep, and himself portraying the same, Vadim made his exit—and d'Artagnan followed him from the shadows' shadow. It was to the same lover's residence that he had told the Gascon about while they were still in prison, but now he had a place and a name that he could pass onto the others.

He headed in the opposite direction, vaguely towards the garrison, but he knew it was to risky and reckless to actually go there. He was still thought to be a wanted man.

So, he cursed, weapon less, when Felix took him from behind. Maybe a fish didn't have more brains than the man like Vadim had said. He was a bit cleverer than he looked.

"Where d'you think you're goin', eh?" Felix hissed in his ear with hot breath.

d'Artagnan grimaced at the feeling and jerked from the man's grasp, thinking fast. "What does it look like? I'm going to see my mistress."

"Right. Take us to 'er, then." Felix challenged, thinking that he'd caught the Gascon out and finally be rid of the young man.

d'Artagnan glared at him. "Fine." And started off towards the Bonacieux residence.

They finally arrived, but d'Artagnan held back.

"Well, go on, then." Felix insisted. "Call 'er out!"

"Alright. Alright." He cringed internally. Constance was going to skin him alive when this whole thing was over and done with. He let out a silent breath as a maid came out and shortly after, Constance.

He reached her with a few quick strides.

"Wha—?" she was startled when she saw him, and even more when he wrapped his arms around her. She instantly flushed at the attention, and then got her wits about her again. "Get off! what do you think—!"

"We're being watched!" d'Artagnan hissed frantically into her ear, unable to stop revelling at the feeling of her body pressed against her. "I will explain, I swear, but you need to invite me in—please." And he tilted his head and kissed her.

Constance sucked in a sharp breath, tense, even as she wanted to melt into it. This wasn't the first time he'd done this. With a sharp look on her face, she pulled back, took his hand and led him inside. d'Artagnan shot a conspicuous look over his shoulder back at Felix over his shoulder. His breath of relief what short-lived that that worked when just at the kitchen door, Constance turned and slapped him.

d'Artagnan looked a bit shocked and she glared up at him, her cheeks pink. "I warned you to never to that again!"

"I'm sorry!" d'Artagnan held up his hands. "I was in another desperate situation and I knew I could count on you. Thanks, by the way. Just as good a kisser as I remember."

She growled and made to smack him again, but he ducked away with a sheepish smile. "Explain." She ordered.

He straightened. "I need you to send a maid to get Athos, Aramis, and Porthos to meet here, and tell them the house might be watched." He wasn't sure how long Felix would stick around so it was better to be safe than sorry. "It's urgent."

Constance tsked, but did as he bid her and took the minute to send Mia off with the message. And finally allowed him into the kitchen. "I swear, d'Artagnan. Ever since you've come—"

"You've been loving every minute of it?" he smiled at from where he sat at the table.

She didn't look too pleased at the moment by his cheeky, if charming, interruption.

"I am sorry, Constance." He told her softy. "I don't mean to be trouble."

She pulled out a chair and sat across from him at the table in the flickering light from the fireplace. "I'm not angry. I just don't understand."

"I—"

"Constance? Aren't you coming to... bed...?" Bonacieux stopped at the threshold of the kitchen in surprise as he saw the scoundrel sitting at his kitchen table.

Constance quietly cursed under her breath. She'd forgot about him, a trending habit that seemed to occur whenever d'Artagnan was around. Not a good sign, she knew. "Jacques—" she stood.

"Scoundrel, what are you doing here? Breaking in? Coming after my wife?!" d'Artagnan sputtered at the heated accusations flying his way. "Guards!" Bonacieux soon exclaimed, "I'll get the Guard."

"That wouldn't be wise." Athos voiced from the entrance to the kitchen, Aramis and Porthos stepping in after her.

Bonacieux sputtered. "You have come just in time, Musketeers! Arrest this man at once. He is a wanted criminal and has broken into my house and mistreated my wife!"

"He's has not!" Constance exclaimed, as d'Artagnan jumped to his feet incredulous at that last accusation (though the previous two could be technically correct), "I would never!"

" _Monsieur_ , I truly apologize for the deception," Athos held up her hand placating-ly, "but d'Artagnan was placed under arrest on our own volition."

"He what?" Constance looked startled and Bonacieux narrowed his beady eyes. She turned a hard look at the Gascon, who couldn't help but fidget a bit under the look.

Without formal invitation, the Inseparables made themselves comfortable in the Bonacieux kitchen and Athos told them the unharmful facts of their mission—up until the escape, that was.

"All of that... your duel and imprisonment was faked?" Constance remarked. "You could have been killed numerous times! What were you thinking?"

"It was all rather done well, I would say." Aramis said.

No one saw the slap coming, least of all its recipient.

"You let me think the worst." She glared, upset. "First I thought you were a condemned man, then a fugitive—and now whatever this is!"

"I dare say!" Bonacieux gasped. "Constance, this must stop!" He apologized and dragged her from the kitchen. "We shall retire now. You may stay as long as you need, mademoiselles."

Aramis sighed, her cheek stinging from a second round with Constance. "I'm starting to have second thoughts,"

Porthos chuckled quietly at the omission.

"I take it, that's not the first time she's done that?" d'Artagnan noted, looking between the pair.

Porthos grinned and patted her friend consolingly on the back. "Nope. But it was just as fun th' second time. No matter 'ow many times, it'll always be a laugh."

"And, you, d'Artagnan? What have you been up to?" Athos said in an imposing tone.

d'Artagnan shifted uncomfortably under the sudden weight of three gazes upon him from his Angels—a term on endearment that he was never, under any circumstance, say to their faces. "Um..." he cleared his throat and sat back at the table, and made his very first report on the matter of Vadim and the gunpowder. "... His second, Felix, hates my guts—that what brought me here in the first place," he shot a glance the way both Bonacieuxs had left, but Aramis saw it anyways and took its meaning sure enough—never one to miss a sexual mishap, wherever it may lie.

He stood again, unable to sit still, and leaned against the fireplace. "Vadim plans to murder the King and the Queen. Some fantasy of a peasant rebellion." He paused as he looked at the others. "I would scoff at the idea, if it weren't for all that gunpowder."

"So you've seen it?" Athos questioned, straightened, eager for news on this front when there had been so little since the initial warning.

But d'Artagnan shook his head. "I don't think he intends to show his hand until the end. He's too smart for something like that."

"A smart criminal," Porthos muttered. "'At's the last thing Paris needs."

"And his men?" Aramis wondered.

"In hiding. The only other person I've had contact with is Felix, his second. It was his fault that Vadim got arrested in the first place. Vadim was visiting his mistress, and Felix was supposed to keep watch but fell asleep."

"When is this plan supposed to take place?" Athos asked.

"Vadim's careful. He'd doesn't say more than he has or wants too."

"Does 'e trust you?" Porthos finally spoke.

"As much as he does anyone. Felix doesn't, but I can handle him." _Tonight was just luck,_ he thought. He'd been caught by surprise and it wasn't going to happen again.

They were quiet for a moment.

"Vadim once said the secret to a good trick is to make people look the wrong way."

Aramis fingered the Queen's Crucifix in thought. "What do you think he meant?"

"Honestly? I have no idea." It was just something that nagged at him, not loud enough for him to make any connection, and just quiet enough to be annoying and distracting.

"You've done enough." Athos said. "We'll take it from here."

"What?" the dismissal took him by surprise. "You pick him up now and the King and Queen are still in danger." d'Artagnan shook his head.

"What do you suggest?" she countered.

d'Artagnan lifted his chin. "I go back in."

Athos' pause spoke volumes. "It's too dangerous," she finally said.

But d'Artagnan couldn't help but hear her calling him weak. "I can _do_ this," he insisted. "Athos... trust me." He looked her in the eye.

Athos stared at him for a long moment and then looked back at Aramis and Porthos, who gave subtle nods. She turned back to the Gascon and gave a grave nod of permission and clapped him on the shoulder. "Alright."

He fought back the grin, and schooled his expression serious again. "This evening, Vadim visited a woman called Suzette Pinault. You'll find her in the Rue Lagrange. I believe she's the same mistress."

d'Artagnan parted from the Bonacieux residence and the three Musketeers followed a minute later.

The Gascon had only made it to the street over when he was spotted by a couple Red Guards, who then gave chase. He took a wrong turn and ended up cornered at a dead-end and weapon less. If he got caught...

His worry on that small matter didn't last very long when a dark-haired, green-eyed, woman with red painted lips melted from the shadows and stabbed one Guard in the kidney with a dagger, and as the other turned towards her, pulling his sword, she killed him with a pistol shot.

"You!" d'Artagnan looked at her open-mouthed for a moment. It was her. The woman he had slept with his first night in Paris on the trail of his father's murderer. Only to wake in the morning, accused of another man's death. "Who _are_ you?" He'd never gotten her name and he never expected to see her again—especially not like this.

"You're guardian angel." She whispered.

He bit back the scoff as she slowly approached him, dagger still in hand. He already had three warrior angels, he didn't need any more. Besides, he could see this woman was trouble from a mile away.

"Now, where is Vadim?" He raised a brow at that, but said nothing. "I have a powerful patron." She said. "He can grant you all the riches and power you desire... if you take me to Vadim." She backed him against the wall.

He narrowed his eyes at her. "You betrayed me. Set me up. Don't think I would forget. If I had been caught, I could have been hanged. Vadim is Musketeer business, not yours!"

"And now I've saved your life." She replied sweetly, pressing closer. "It wasn't only murder that made out night together memorable." She nipped his lip. "You're at a crossroads, d'Artagnan. Don't take the wrong path." Her lips brushed his. "Choose the Musketeers and you choose oblivion."

Her tongue twined with his. He said he knew she was trouble, that didn't mean that he was dead, and it didn't stop him from being male.

"d'Artagnan!"

She jerked away from him at his shouted name down the street, like the woman's voice was like a whip to the back. "Another time." She whispered in his ear, and vanished—just as Athos, Aramis and Porthos found him, following the gunfire.

"What happened?" Athos looked down at the two Red Guards for a second before looking at d'Artagnan. With one looked she made sure he was unharmed.

He shook his head mutely, caught several more times this night unawares. First Felix, and now this strange woman whose name he knew not, and how was he to explain this away to the Inseparables? The woman who he had a one-night affair with, upon his arrival in Paris in search of the murderer of his father, who framed him for murder, just happened to save him from two Red Guard, when he was at his most defenceless, and whereupon, she told him he was undecided in life and not to choose the wrong path—becoming a Musketeer apparently said path. For which she decidedly knew more about him, than he did her.

Yes. That would go over so well, understandably so.

"Never mind." There wasn't time for this. "Go!" she ordered him, waving him away. "We'll take care of this."

He didn't have to be told twice, and ran back down the street.

He'd better get his head in the game. It was now more dangerous than ever, more players entering the game than they would have wished. So much for keeping this contained to a cell in the Chatelet.

"Porthos, follow him. Watch his back."

Porthos nodded and left after the Gascon, tracing his path; and Aramis and Athos got down to work.

* * *

When d'Artagnan returned to Vadim's hideout, he was confronted by both Vadim and Felix. The rat snitched on him, of course he did. Vadim was giving him a hard stare and d'Artagnan leaned against the wall casually. _Don't show guilt, you were just seeing your mistress, that was all._

He remembered his kiss with the green-eyed woman, and then he remembered his kiss with Constance. The Agent's was sickly-sweet, so cold it burned hot. Constance' was sweet, and warm and made his heart flutter.

"We can't trust him, Vadim." Felix insisted. "He's a spy and a traitor."

d'Artagnan shook his thoughts of the two women away and glared at the man.

"You feel asleep when you were meant to be watching my back." Vadim said coldly. "No-one's perfect." Felix turned away, shame-faced; and Vadim turned his attention towards d'Artagnan. "This women, she'd important to you?"

"Yes, she is." He didn't even have to think about, it was the truth—there was no one like Constance. "I had to see her again. It could be the last time."

"You said nothing?"

"Vadim, I was careful." He swore. "No-one saw me."

"I understand love, d'Artagnan, believe me." Vadim stood and approached him, and gone was the understanding, wistful tone, and came the cold, hard-edge, "Next time you want a conjugal visit, you ask. Understood?"

"Mmm." He nodded.

"Now get some sleep. You'll need it." Vadim told him.

That had been a close call. d'Artagnan wondered what he mother might think if she'd been alive to witness how good of a liar her only son had become. But he had bigger things to think about right now, like exactly what was Vadim planning, and would they be able to prevent it in time?

* * *

Aramis and Athos went to question Vadim's mistress the next morning, Porthos still watching d'Artagnan's back.

"You sure you're Musketeers?" Suzette questioned, sitting on the edge of her bed, looking at the two women dubiously.

"Yes, we're sure." Amaris agreed.

"But... Aren't Musketeers supposed to be men?"

"Not necessarily." Athos replied dryly.

"Mm. I'm not sure I trust a woman in breeches." She bit her lip thoughtful-like as her gaze scoured their beautiful bodies covered beneath several layers of leather. "But it makes me curious just what you're hiding under there. Mmm."

Both Musketeer women shared long-suffering look. At first glance this woman seemed to just be another innocent in a long-line connected to Vadim, but surely the man kept up with her all this time for something more than just sex.

They were going to have to push, it seemed, at least to get her over the bump of things.

"You can think of us as men, if you wish, mademoiselle." Aramis inclined her head. "Is there nothing you can tell us of Vadim? What he might be planning?"

She looked reluctant. "Vadim never did wrong by me."

"I'm sure that's true, but he'd gotten himself into trouble—trouble that could hurt a lot of people as a result."

"We know you've seen Vadim, Suzette." Athos said. "You have a choice. You can go to the gallows with him..."

"Or you can save yourself." Aramis finished. Just like with Porthos, Athos and her didn't need words to read each other. It was an instinct like that that came in handy when they came into situations like this, or with Dujon, where their reactions were an unknown and they might have to change tactics at a moment's notice.

"I'm not denying anything." She protested at the bald treat. "I saw him!"

"Why didn't you report it?" Athos wondered, a light accusing tone in her voice.

"Because I don't want to get involved with the Guards." The prostitute replied. "Besides, we used to be quite close."

"You were lovers?"

"Ooh, you're a sharp one." She winked and bit her lip.

Athos her gave an unimpressed smile, not affected by the flirtations a bit. "What did he want?"

Suzette sighed. "He said he was going away. He wanted me to go with him. I said no." She opened a hand-fan and started to stimulate the air sensually. Getting nowhere with Athos, she turned to Aramis to had moved to the window and closer to the bed. "Has any ever told you you've got lovely eyes?"

Aramis smiled at her. "The Captain mentioned it only this morning."

"He's a very lucky man." She murmured, her head cock and neck extended.

"Don't I know it!"

"If you don't tell us the truth," Athos interrupted, her voice taking threat, "We could have you whipped."

"Don't tease me!" She gasped. "It's usually the other way around with my visitors, but if the money's right..."

"Where did you first meet Vadim?" Aramis interceded, getting them back on topic.

"At the Louvre Palace." She didn't seemed to pleased with the subject change. "I was a scullery maid, he was a servant."

"Vadim worked at the Palace?" Aramis glanced at Athos. This was definitely news to them and most definitely a point of great interest.

"For two years. That's where he became obsessed with the King. He really hated him."

"Tell us about that." She encouraged in soft and pleasant tones.

"He said that King Louis had broken his promises to the people. Talked about it all the time."

"Did he say he wanted to kill him?" Athos insisted.

Suzette paused in thought. "I don't remember. Maybe."

Aramis stepped from the window and sat down next to her on the bed, flipping on the charm. She said softly, encouraging in sympathy, "Vadim stole enough gunpowder to wipe out dozens of innocent lives. Is that what you want?"

Suzette got pulled into her gaze. "He came to me, I sent him away. I don't know where he is, I don't know what he's doing. That's all." Her tone, it was almost like she was in a trance under Arami's hot gaze.

Aramis was silent as she looked at Suzette for a long moment in contemplative silence. She finally gave a nod and stood next to Athos once more.

"Look, if I knew any more, I'd tell you." Suzette insisted, a slight bit unnerved by their silence and direct looks. "Well, I don't want to hang!"

"Very well. I believe you." Athos deadpanned—if only that last bit.

"Wait!" She called as they went to leave. She leaned forward, making sure that her breasts were barred and visible as she bit her bottom lip and looked between the two Musketeers. "If you ever want to get out for a _bit_ e, beautiful, just let me know."

Aramis and Athos parted, the former with a faux wink.

"She's covering for him." Aramis said as soon as they exited the residence, any flirtatious pretence vanishing in an instant. The woman was beautiful enough, but she just wasn't the markswoman's cup of tea.

"Don't let her out of your sight." Athos agreed.

"What about you?"

"To update Treville." Athos paused, a flash of amusement in her blue eyes. "And perhaps to remind him how beautiful your eyes are."

"It could do, it could do." Aramis chuckled. "He's hardly paid me any mind this last few."

"I'll make sure of it." She doffed her hat and headed for the garrison.

The tip d'Artagnan had given them was a good one. If not for it, they would not have found out that Vadim had worked at the Palace, where his hatred for the King stemmed. She thought of the Gascon and apprehension clenched her stomach unseen.

* * *

Porthos kept an eye on d'Artagnan; while Aramis left her gaze to Suzette. It might not have been as bad if she could be in the lady's room, but an outside view of her apartment would have to do; while Athos and Captain Treville went to see the Cardinal about Vadim's plans regarding the King and then the King himself.

It was Notre-Dame. They royal family always shows themselves to the people after Easter Mass. It was tradition—and Vadim's plan of attack.

* * *

"We strike tomorrow at 11:00, as the clock chimes. Three men in the crowd with bombs, four standing by, should they fail." Thunder rumbled. "The King and Queen will be dead before a quarter past.

"And me? What do I do?" d'Artagnan asked.

"I have a very special destiny for you, my friend." Vadim squeezed his shoulder. "This time tomorrow, My name will live forever. Your's, too, should you play your part." They shook hands and d'Artagnan plastered a smile on his lips. "Here, take the map. You might need it. And buy wine, we should celebrate. Go!"

d'Artagnan stepped out into the fog-clouded night and walked down the street. He passed Porthos in her look-out spot, but didn't even glance the woman's way as he casually dropped the map that Vadim had given him with the plans for tomorrow's attack on the ground, not breaking in his stride.

Porthos picked it up and glanced at the plans as he saw a group of men enter the building that d'Artagnan had just left. She changed her position.

Aramis tracked Suzette through the night, just as it started to rain, stayed around the corner, hidden from sight, as she disappeared into a building. She tensed as she felt the barrel of a pistol against the side of her neck, but soon relaxed when she heard Porthos' familiar chuckle.

"Easy. Even you can't miss from this distance." She carefully pushed the barrel away.

Porthis grinned and tucked the gun away. "What're you doin' 'ere?"

"I was following Suzette."

"Check out what d'Artagnan gave me." Porthos showed her the plans. "An' I counted six of Vadim's men arrivin' not too long ago."

"We should strike now." Aramis said.

"Mmm. I'll get th' others." And Porthos left Aramis to keep watch in the rain.

* * *

When d'Artagnan arrived back at the hideout, Vadim's men were already there, Suzette, too, his lover.

"In a few hours time, the King will be dead!" Vadim announced, and the men cheered. The count down was nearly finished. It would be only a matter of time before the Musketeers arrived. "Every man here I trust like a brother. All except one"

d'Artagnan tensed. Did Vadim know? Did he find out? He finally got a sword, but with this many men, he wouldn't last very long.

Vadim started a slow walk around the group, locking eyes with each one as he spoke. "We have a traitor in our midst." He paused at Felix's side.

d'Artagnan held his breath. The traitor wasn't Felix, but could the Gascon be so lucky? Things would be much easier if the man was out of his way, and by Vadim, no less.

"It's not me, Vadim." Felix told him. "I would lay down my life for you."

"He's knows that, Felix." Suzette said. "You're not the one."

A pistol cocked and d'Artagnan looked startled to suddenly find himself looking down a barrel by Vadim. Apparently not. "On you're knees."

"You're wrong." d'Artagnan told him, staying on his feet. His heart pounding in his chest. If he went for his sword now, it would just mean his death would come all the sooner. He'd been so confident, so cocky. Just what Athos told him not to do. He shouldn't have come back when he went out on that wine run.

"Don't even think about it," Vadim said, reading the thoughts in his eyes clearly. "Or perhaps, do. It would be interesting to see how many you could kill before I manage to pull the trigger. You'd have to be fast, my friend—I enjoy you, but I don't enjoy you that much."

"Vadim..." He whispered.

"Musketeer!" Vadim spat, pushing the pistol closer to his face, forcing the Gascon down. "You should have stayed in that cell."

"No-one outwits Vadim!" Suzette hissed triumphantly. She'd fooled those two Musketeer women so easily. It was like child's play, and this young man's deception was as clear to Vadim as the diamond pendant that he had stolen from the Palace was beautiful.

And then pain exploded at the top of his skull, and all the young man knew was dark, but for all he would know, he could be dead. He had failed, but perhaps his Angels would not.

* * *

The Musketeers had finally gathered outside and stormed the basement room, but it was empty. "d'Artagnan. He's not here, none of them are."

"'Ow could we 'ave missed them?" Porthos demanded. "I saw them come in!"

"There's obviously a back door." Aramis cursed. They had been stupid, they should have checked and posted a guard at both doors.

Empty but for a dark stain on the concrete.

Athos crouched and touched it, "Blood." Tacky.

"Charlie?" the worry stuck in Aramis' throat.

The three Inseparables shared worried looks.

"Perhaps." Treville agreed, sighing. "He knew something like this could happen and we wouldn't be there to help—but he chose to take the risk. There was nothing you could have done."

Athos turned to him with a cold look in her blue eyes. "We could have stopped him."

Treville shook his head. "Our job is to protect the King. And when that's finished, we can worry about d'Artagnan." He looked at each in turn before he went back to the street and called the other Musketeers to him.

Athos turned away from him, her jaw clenched as tight as her stomach and heart. As much as she didn't want to acknowledge it, Treville was right. Protecting the King and Queen was their number-one, and d'Artagnan wasn't.

She followed after him.

With one last worried glance at the blood, Aramis followed.

Porthos was the last from the room, looking at its emptiness with anger, frustration, confusion and concern—let's not forget guilt, either. It was her duty to watch over d'Artagnan's back, and she had failed. Whether the lad was alive or not, she couldn't be sure they'd ever find out.

Little did the Musketeers know, that it wasn't the back door that lead to their escape, but it was underneath in the tunnels that ran beneath Paris. And in a few hours time, the city wouldn't even know what hit it.

* * *

It was Easter Mass and the parade commenced as perusal, but for the excess amount of Musketeers guarding the Royalty. They knew the location of which was optimal to attack, but the Inseparables would have preferred to have d'Artagnan at their sides where he belonged. He knew what Felix and Vadim's other men look like, but they were left on their own.

* * *

d'Artagnan moaned, his head throbbing as he sia hunch uncomfortably. He cracked his eyes open in the dim lighting, and his first sight was of Vadim crouched next to a barrel with a lit candle sit atop it.

His brows furrowed in slight confusion for a second and Vadim smiled welcoming at him—before reality rushed back into place and he remembered that the two of them were on far from friendly terms with each other.

"You're just in time, my friend." Vadim told him, unravelling what looked to be a thin rope. "I thought I might be gone before you awoke. You wouldn't want to miss the high point of our acquaintance, now would you?"

d'Artagnan made to jump to his feet, but found his arms immobile and looked around himself to see that he was bound to several wood barrels and kegs. "Where—What—?!"

"In the tunnels, under the Louvre. All this time, scheming and searching—when all you had to do was ask me and I would have brought you down to my gunpowder cache."

d'Artagnan's eyes widened and he struggled against his binds. "Vadim, listen to me!"

"No!" Vadim spat, and crouched down in front of d'Artagnan. "You listen!" He took the cork out of one of the smaller kegs at the Gascon's feet and put the end of what was not a rope but a fuse, in the hole and then stoppered it again. A discarded sword at his feet. "Did you honestly believe that I fell for you act as scorned recruit, for a second?"

d'Artagnan's lips tightened and his brown eyes narrowed, anger burned hot beneath the surface, but he exuded a calmer exterior than before. "You did. I don't know when you started to see through it. Perhaps Felix's badgering, or you got suspicious when I went for my mistress, or maybe it was the visit to Suzette. But at one point, you did believe, Vadim."

He gave the young man a cruel smile. "If that thought helps you die better, than believe it. But the charade is up now, and there's only naked truth down here in these tunnels. And that's your death," he dusted his hands off and stood back up and went over to the lit candle.

Panic rose in d'Artagnan afresh as he soon realized that Vadim was attaching the other end of the fuse to the candle, and intended to blow him up as well. "You—There's still time to stop this!"

"Why would I stop it?" Vadim laughed as he put a glass lid over the candle to protect the flame. "Right now, you're women are scrambling for their lives. Did you really think that it was my plan to kill the King? I could care less about that sodding fool! No. The first thing I said to you—revealed my entire plan. You were just too focused on the gunpowder. You should have paid more attention." He loaded his satchel with some hand bombs before he stopped at the door. "Don't you know? All good magician's needs to have a few good assistants." He placed his palm against the stone wall. "I discovered these tunnels whilst I worked in the Palace kitchens. You can almost feel the heat from the bread oven. They run all the way from the Palace, to the city walls." He glanced towards the ceiling. "In fifteen minutes, you, and it, will cease to exist. A grand finale, don't you think?" And he finally left d'Artagnan with a timer and a bunch of gunpowder that would blow him from existence.

He screamed foul after Vadim, but as soon as that door shut, he immediately started to figure a way out of these binds. He had said fifteen minutes, but it had been at least five since he had lit it. Realizing he couldn't get out of this by pure strength, he tried to reach his sword in the dirt at the bottom of his deadly throne, but the weapon was just out of reach.

Panic almost seized him for a moment, before he shoved it down with a violence of pure want of life, and pulled the rope from either arm taut and started to rub it against the rough edges of the barrels' lips that he was attached to.

His discarded sword several feet away in the dirt like a taunt the entire time, his eyes glued to the burning candle.

* * *

Even as Felix screamed out death to the King, and soon managed to lob one such fused bomb into the street, dread filled the Musketeers as Aramis made a minute decision that would end her own life, but save the crowd that couldn't get away in time.

"No! Aramis, no!" Porthos' screamed broke the Spaniard's heart as she curled around the bomb, its fuse burning fast.

She had been in many life-and-death situations, but she didn't think any had been as sure as this. Even though she had always know it wasn't likely she would survive through the Musketeers long enough to be able to retire, she never believed that she would die before she could become the nun that she was meant to be, before she found the Musketeers and her true sisters (and now little brother). She thought of them now, Athos and Porthos, Charlie—and to her surprise, the Queen. Three heart-beats and she'd meet her end. She remembered her first-love, and the reason why she was going to become a Sisternun in the first place. She remembered her friend, partner, and lover, the man that she thought she might marry and have children with, how they'd both leave the Musketeers when the time was right—before he had left her surrounded by 20 cold Musketeers.

It was like she was underwater, all she could hear was her own heart-beat thumping in her chest.

So wrapped up in this, it took her a moment to realize that she was not yet dead—though the bomb should have killed her and sent her to God already. She opened her eyes, blood rushing in her ears, her breath loud in her throat.

"It's... It's a dud!" She croaked, breathless. Her knees would have given out beneath her if it weren't for the fact that she was already on the ground. "It's a dud!" There was more volume to her voice this time, and she forced the adrenaline rush that floored her, to make her fly and climbed to her feet.

Much like what had happened in the Chatelet yard, the world around her snapped back into focus. The rush of bodies, the shouting and the screams—the panic like a physical taste in the air.

"Get the King and Queen to safety!" Treville shouted and several Musketeers rushed past Aramis with the Royalty netted in the middle. The Spaniard just caught sight of a fearful and concerned Queen Anne look back over her shoulder at her, before the two of them were rushed into the carriage and driven to safety.

Athos cursed as Felix and two other men escaped, something they were in a rush to do when they discovered—much like the Musketeers' surprise, that the bombs were dubs.

"It's a distraction!" she realized. Turning in a circle as she thought frantically.

Despite the chaos and the rush, Porthos grabbed Aramis tightly in a hug, burying her face in the other woman's neck, taking several deep and shuddering breaths as she fought to control the emotion—the fear and anguish that had wanted to consume her at the sight of Aramis sacrificing her life like that. No matter how many times, how many missions, it never got easier, it got worse.

Aramis hugged the woman back, relief coursing through her body like her blood. She'd really thought she'd been a dead woman—and was happy that she wasn't—but this wasn't the end yet.

The two women jumped apart as an explosion tore through the air.

"He made us look the wrong way!" And Athos cursed again as she looked towards the billowing smoke deeper into Paris. "It's not an assassination attempt, it's robbery. Vadim's at the Palace!"

* * *

The sound of a small, nearby explosion made d'Artagnan jump and his heart stop, for a moment believing that his own barrels had somehow exploded, but he realized it was just Vadim enacting his true plan and d'Artagnan continued to saw that the ropes with a more frantic pace, if that were possible.

He had to get the fuck out of here.

He didn't think that he was going to make it in time. His arms were tiring and cramping. His heart was lodge in his throat, making it hard to breath. He thought about his father, hardly more than a month from this world. He thought of the new family that he had found, his three big sisters. They already had such a connection, even after only such a sort time. It was almost like in some other life they had lost each other, and in this one, they found each other again. And he thought of Constance. Constance, who always made his heart beat a little faster, who made him think of a future...

He nearly didn't notice it, when the rope finally frayed enough from the friction that it came loose around his wrists, so lost in his remembrances. He disentangled himself from the binds and dived forward with hast.

He ripped the fuse from the keg and tossed it away from the barrels. It sparked until it burned completely out in the dirk, charred—and convoluted like a snake's shed skin. Heart hammering like a hummingbird's wings, he collapsed back against the idle barrels for a moment as he came down from one of his first near-death experiences.

He finally pushed himself to his feet. Now was not the time to be idle, there was still things that he needed to do. Like find the Inseparables and get Vadim. His silently thanked the man as he picked up the discarded belt and sword, and notched it around his waist as he went to the door.

d'Artagnan scoffed as he glanced around the small room from the door. Did Vadim really think that a couple ropes would stop the young man? That he wouldn't find a way to escape before the candle burned down? It was almost insulting, but the Gascon was just thankful at the moment. Right now, he needed to track down Vadim, but had no idea what the mastermind's plan actually was. So maybe tracking down his Angels was better.

He remembered the plan that Vadim had told him, the one about ambushing the King and Queen when they showed themselves after Easter Mass. That was the attack that the Musketeers were expecting. He believed that Vadim had deceived Felix just as much as himself, knew that would make the perfect distraction—that what the man was best at, misdirection. He also knew that the three women could take care of themselves, but he worried nonetheless.

* * *

The three women raced to the Palace at Athos' realization that Vadim's true intent this entire time was not to kill the King and the Queen, but to rob the Royal Vault. The same Vault that he had stolen the Queen's precious diamond pendant from years earlier.

When they made it to the Palace, servants were rushing this way and that, panicked. The result of Vadim's hand bombs was clear, and Athos felt a sickness inside of her that that had almost to happened to her dear friend when Aramis had dived atop the bomb earlier.

"There he is. Vadim!" she shouted as she caught sight of the man at the end of the hall, with a bulging satchel filled with stolen jewels hanging around his hip. The man fled and the Musketeers gave chase as he descended into the lower bowels of Louvre.

"Stop Vadim!" Athos pulled her pistol as the bottom of the steps, Porthos next to her and Aramis half-way down. On their right were smaller, adjacent tunnels, with archways. Vadim paused at the T-juncture of the tunnel and raised his hands as he slowly turned.

"Where is d'Artagnan?" She demanded immediately. "What have you done with him? Is he alive?" that last one stuck in her throat at the guilt of it gnawed at her.

* * *

The gunpowder was disarmed, so that was one weight off his shoulders. Now, to remove another.

He opened the unlocked door, and immediately, sparks from several fuses beneath his feet lit up, triggered by the underside of the door. d'Artagnan cursed and scrambled to stamp the fuses out, but they were just burning to fast for him. He looked up at the stacks of barrels, wide-eyed, and realized that there was no stopping this.

He turned, and ran.

Each step jolted his aching head, but that would be nothing compared. He'd rather have a splitting skill than no head at all. He could only pray that he was able to get far enough from the explosion that he survived with none-threatening injuries.

And then it did go off.

The sound of it was concussive. It was like a monster roaring as it raced through the tunnels after the fleeing Gascon—before it was upon him.

* * *

Vadim smirked. "Boom." He said simply and put his fingers in his ears.

Athos' eyes widened at the implications of that single word. "Look out!" She grabbed Porthos and shoved her against the space between the two archways as the explosion shook the tunnel and smoke and brick exploded towards them.

* * *

This was what d'Artagnan might have imagined it would feel like, if Porthos decided to dropkick him, if she were five of herself, instead of just one. The concussion of the blast sent him tumbling forward as the tunnel filled with smoke, fire, and tumbling bricks.

* * *

The smoke cleared, and left the three Musketeers senseless. Vadim smiled as he vanished down the dark tunnel, grabbing a torch and lighting it in the flame upon the ground.

Aramis was the first to come around and stumbled down the stairs to her two friends. "Athos! Porthos!"

Relief flooded her when she heard their groans.

Athos groaned and Porthos choked. She helped them to their feet from their bed of rubble, each woman covered in a layer of dust that nearly made them look spectres.

"You don't think—?" Aramis asked, unable to finish the end of that sentence. She's had enough with explosions for the day. She remembered the fear that had got through her when she realized that it was going to be her last breath—but by some God-given chance, it was a dud and she was saved. She could only pray the He was looking out for Charlie with that same clarity.

"No." Athos said firmly, but the doubt was clear. After an explosion like that... "Let's move. We owe it to d'Artagnan to end Vadim."

They followed the fading light of the moving torch, fast on the mastermind's trail.

They rain into company, only it wasn't Vadim, but Felix and the two others who had escaped from the attack on the Royals. The way Porthos tore into Felix, was gruesome. She took no mercy on that man that had nearly ended her best-friend's life, her sister's life.

It was an unforgivable act.

* * *

d'Artagnan coughed as the dusk settled around him and he climbed to his feet, pushing a few broken stones off of him. He had been lucky. If he'd waited any longer before running, he might not have made it. As it was, it took him a moment to gain his balance, and he stumbled down the tunnel. He didn't know his way around, but could hope that he might happen upon the man of his deathly desire.

He slowed and wiped the dust from his eyes as he saw the faint flickering of what could only be a lit torch farther done, and a slow grin stretched his lips. "I have you now, you son of a bitch." He was going to use the man's own trick against him.

"Vadim..." he called quietly, eerily. And his voice travelled around the enclosed stone with a slight distortion. More scary than if he had screamed the man's name.

"Who's there?" the man demanded, looking around his T-juncture.

"Don't you know me, Vadim?" d'Artagnan kept the same, quiet tones, staying just outside the sights of the light torch as Vadim waved it around, trying to locate him. "I'm coming for you, Vadim. Where am I?"

"Where are you?" he repeated, drawing his sword.

"Here."

Vadim spun in that direction. "You're full of surprise, aren't you?" he spat.

"I had a good teacher." d'Artagnan chuckled dryly. "Sorry. Over here."

But the Gascon was not where he said he would be. The panic that Vadim was feeling was rising, along with his anger. He swiped at the darkness, hoping to hit the young man, but there was only emptiness. It was as if d'Artagnan were a ghost, flitting from one place to another.

"I'll kill you, you bastard!" Vadim shouted, his voice echoing hashly in the tunnel. "Come at me, you coward."

"I'm right here, Vadim!" d'Artagnan hissed in his ear, standing right behind him. He knocked the torch from the man's hands and to the ground. "Face me, and die."

Vadim spun around, swinging his sword. d'Artagnan blocked the man's strike and pushed him back a step. The torch light was slowly dying, smoke filling the space, the dust from the explosion still not entirely setteld from the air, leaving them in a dark dimness. From the tunnel at his back, d'Artagnan was sure sunlight leaked in not to far down.

He could not, and would not, let Vadim escape.

Sparks flew as their blades clashed, ever moving. Before d'Artagnan managed to get a thrust in. Vadim kicked his leg out from under him, leaving the lad on the ground. He vanished into the shadows.

d'Artagnan jumped to his feet and quickly grabbed the dying torch, but there was no sight of the man. He spun in the other direction as he heard footsteps approach, and nearly whimpered at the sight of his Angels.

"So, you are alive." Athos gasped, as the three women surrounded him, giving him a solemn nod.

"I think so." He gave a small grin.

Porthos gave him a hardly pat on the back that made him wince a bit, but he gave a breathless laugh anyways. "It took you three long enough. I thought I was going to have to have all the fun by myself."

"Never." Aramis said, giving him a warm smile. After almost being blown up, she was happy to see that the same could be said for d'Artagnan. Worry stuck her like a pin though, as she noted the amount of blood matting his dark locks. But Athos' question stopped her natural mother-hen instinct.

"Vadim?"

He glanced at his sword blade in the torch light, and noted the dark smearing of blood. "Wounded." He'd thought he'd gotten a hit in, but in the commotion, he hadn't been sure. "Badly. He can't have got far."

A look passed between the four, and they moved as one down the tunnel that had been at d'Artagnan's back—following a trail of Royal jewels. He tossed the torch aside as they soon came upon sunlight streaming through a barred archway that led to the canal, its rusted bars bent.

"Stop there, Vadim!" Porthos shouted as they chased the wounded man into the open. "Stop!" but they needn't have worried, the man collapsed onto his knees himself. Four swords pointed at him neck anyways.

He glared at d'Artagnan. "I should have strangled you in the Chatelet. Saved myself a lot of trouble." He groaned, falling down onto his side, and then back as he grasped his bloody wound.

They four withdrew their swords.

"Why didn't you?" d'Artagnan couldn't help but wonder, kneeling next to the man. "You said you knew who I was the whole time. So, why? You're plan might've worked, if it hadn't been for me."

"For the fun of it." He smirked. "What's the point of victory, without a few hurdles along the way? It was a good trick." He insisted. "It should have worked..."

"It nearly did," the Gascon whispered to the man.

Vadim let out a final breath, his wound finally taking him. His hand fell to the ground at his side, his palm slowly opening to reveal that coin he was always flipping through his fingers and making disappear.

d'Artagnan stared at the dead man for a long moment, so long that it started to concern the Inseparables.

"Charlie?" Aramis murmured, a hand on his shoulder. "Are you alright?"

He answered after a moment. "Yeah." He stood, Vadim's coin clenched in his hand. "I'm alright."

"Treville will want a report." Athos said. "We should get back to the garrison."

" _And_ have those wounds checked out." Aramis said, pointedly looking at d'Artagnan.

He gave her a look. "I said I was fine!"

"And that looks like a concussion _and_ a laceration." She deadpanned.

"Come on, lad!" Porthos wrapped an arm around his shoulders. "Don' fight it, she'll have 'er way with ya, either way." And started to lead him back into the city.

Aramis smiled as she followed after the pair. It was best that he learn that right off if he was going to stick around. Athos gave Vadim's body one last glance before she followed, too.

* * *

A couple hours later, after giving Treville the unedited report of his time with Vadim, d'Artagnan was finally able to get away from the garrison. Of course, not before Aramis man handled him, making sure herself that he was uninjured; and cleaned up a bit—it wouldn't do to approach the woman of his desire covered in blood.

So it was with slight trepidation that he approached the Bonacieux residence. They hadn't parted on very satisfying terms, the mission with Vadim took precedence over his personal life. But now that Vadim was gone, the mission over, he had been wondering if he would be looking for a knew place to stay in Paris—and couldn't help but worry if it would been in some alley.

So, when he found himself stood across from her in the kitchen, with the peeved look she was giving him, he was surprised that she'd even let him in. He remembered the slap she'd given Aramis, and though it best to keep some distance between them—he was smart enough for that, at least.

"Constance, I truly am sorry for the deception. I didn't mean for you to get upset." He demurred.

She scoffed. "What did you expect was going to happen? Did you not think I would care that you were arrested and to be hanged?"

He looked at her with a light in his eyes that he knew he shouldn't have, and her expression said the same. Her concern was genuine, and that just seemed to fan that flames inside of his heart. "Am I to find a new place to rent, Constance?" he asked quietly.

She gave a heavy sigh. "Do you know how hard it is to find a good lodger these days? So, until I _do_ find one, I suppose that you can stay." d'Artagnan grinned at her and she gave him a sweetly-sour glower. "My life used to be so simple before you came along, d'Artagnan."

"Sorry...?" he asked.

A small smile twitched at the corner of her lips. "I hated it."

He chuckled and gave a small bow. "Glad I could be of service, _Madame_."

"Right. Keep up that cheek, _Monsieur._ " She threatened, flicking the dishtowel in her hands at him, but became empty when she giggled, and he figured it was the most beautiful sound he'd heard since he came to Paris.

* * *

Suzette's body would be found the next afternoon by a regular costumer. Perhaps she and Vadim would find each other in the afterlife.

And a certain, dark-haired, green-eyed Agent with a powerful patron would have in her possession, the fabled diamond pendent that Vadim had stolen from the Palace all those years ago. A secret between a dead woman and assassin—just like the plans regarding as certain Gascon with her patron.

* * *

 **the** **M** **~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

 _Of course, I had to keep the thing between Aramis and the Queen, though obviously, since Aramis is now a woman, some things will have to change, and you'll see those things later. The same is to be said for Milady, who I kept the same (a woman) [for it to work with d'Artagnan, who is straight], but her and Athos' history will be a bit altered, as you will also see later. And duh with the Constagnan! ;)_

y


	3. Pursuit 3: Commodities

**a/n:** —

 **Disclaimer: I don't own the Musketeers, just gonna borrow them and their adventures.**

 **Episode Tag:** _Season 1, Episode 3: Commodities._

* * *

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

 **Charl(i)es' Angels!**  
 **Pursuit 3 : **_Commodities_

"Wait," Aramis stopped d'Artagnan, pushing him back into his seat. "I want to see to see how this plays out." She grinned. "I always love a good catfight."

d'Artagnan looked at his friend, an amused spark in his eyes. "So, when you, Athos and Porthos scrimmage in the yard, that's what I should call it? Good to know."

Aramis shot him a look, and he gave her an innocent smile in return. "I think that's what the other Musketeers call it when _you_ fight _us_ , Charlie." He glowered at her comment on his looks. It wouldn't be the first time that he had been described as beautiful instead of handsome. She gave him a wide grin. "Don't look so sad—I know many a-woman who would kill for your looks... Some men, even."

"Great." d'Artagnan growled threateningly at her, ready to give a retort in kind when a catfight really did happen, one that would soon turn pretty violent.

Treville had sent the Inseparables, and of course, d'Artagnan by extension, on a mission to Le Havre, to collect the man that was standing at the table across from the pair. His name was Emile Bonnaire, and he was accused of breaking the trading treaty between the French and Spanish.

It had been twenty-minutes since d'Artagnan had watched his boat dock, and he came to this tavern, and already there was trouble. It started out with some innocent flirting with the bar wench, but turned into an angry cat fight when a second woman burst into the tavern, screaming Bonnaire's name, and then soon attacked the wench.

It was all fun and games, as Aramis might put it. The intruding woman took a slash at the wench, and the wench shoved at the woman to get passed her. But the woman grabbed for her, tearing her sleeve. The wench threw a plate at her from the table, and the woman slashed at her again. The wench ducked to dodge it and dive away, but the woman grabbed a handful of her hair, and with a cry, threw her back onto the table where she leapt on her chest, and put the knife to the wench's throat, who whimpered underneath her.

"I'll kill you!" the woman screamed at Bonnaire,

"Darling, calm yourself, I beg you." Bonnaire scoffed at the woman, taking his seat once more. "It's far to early in the morning."

And then things really took a turn, when one of the several men who had been following the trader, much like the Musketeers, but with far more foul intent, pushed through the gathered crowd with a club in hand. Bonnaire's eyes widened and fired a pistol from under the table, kneecapping the man.

The woman jumped from the wench's chest and spun around, the knife barred, and hissed at the crowd. "Touch him and die!"

Headless of the warning, another man charged from the crowd, and d'Artagnan and Aramis could stay back no longer. The Gascon tripped the charging man, and Aramis planted a foot on the man's chest, her pistol pointed at him.

Athos and Porthos, having been seated themselves on the other side of the tavern, stepped in as well. Porthos flung her arm out, and with unnatural strength, swatted an intentful man into the wall like a fly. Aramis let her man go and turned to the woman.

"You can stay away, too!" the unknown woman warned her.

"A moment ago you wanted to kill him!" She scoffed, incredulous.

"I have the right." She spat. "You don't."

"Yeah. Why's that?"

The woman slashed at Aramis in response, who dodged out of the way and grabbed her wrist, twisting the dagger free before the Spaniard shoved the woman back towards d'Artagnan.

"Stop! Get your hands off me!"

The young man tried to hold the woman, but it proved harmful when she managed to sink her teeth into his hand. He quickly released her when his bones crunched under the pressure and gave an exclaim. Porthos laughed at him.

d'Artagnan looked over at them, dually surprised and embarassed. "She just bit me!"

"Ladies, sir," Bonnaire addressed them. "Thank you. Thank you." They slowly closed ranks around him. "I can't thank you enough. Lucky for me, you were here."

"Not entirely." Athos disagreed. "Emile Bonnaire. I am Athos of the King's Musketeers." Porthos started to frisk him. "You are under arrest." Bonnaire's expression dropped, and Porthos relieved him of his sword, a long dagger, too. "We're taking you to Paris to appear before the King."

"Uh, no..." Bonnaire shook his head, his voice a scratchy deep. "I'm afraid I can't... I can't travel today, 'cause I've got important business—"

"You're important business will have to wait," Athos interrupted him.

"Right." he said quietly into silence.

"What about her?" d'Artagnan asked, giving the woman next to him a uncomfortable nod.

"I have a name." Said woman protested, glaring at him. "It is Maria Bonnaire."

Bonnaire gave them an uncomfortable smile. "Musketeers, my wife."

"That's explains a lot!" Aramis said, Porthos laughed across from her and she smiled in return. d'Artagnan fought the urge to switch places with the woman, for the scathing look that said wife was sending across their way.

"Any hidden weapons we should know about?" Porthos asked.

"Uh, no. No, I never carry any concealed weapons." He said, lying terribly, just as Porthos pulled a small flint pistol hidden poorly on his person.

"Hmm." Porthos was not impressed.

Bonnaire glanced back at her a little wide-eyed. "I completely forget about that one."

"Easily done!" Porthos smacked him 'good-naturedly' on the back with enough force to make his stumble forward a step.

"I would hate for you to lose anything so valuable." Interceded two men dressed all in black, holding out Bonnaire's papers canister to the man. "You wouldn't want this to fall into the wrong hands. Would you?" his words were dressed in politeness, but hostility rumbled beneath.

Porthos confiscated it first, however, Bonnaire seeming frozen with unease at the attention of the two strange men.

Bonnaire quickly turned to the Musketeers. "Well, Ladies, Paris it is." And quickly headed for the door. "Oh, Um..." he paused and turned back to the foursome behind him. He looked a bit awkwardly at the three women, but pushed forward. "Grant me one last favour before we go." His eyes glances across at Maria, and they locked gazes. "A few moments alone with my wife."

d'Artagnan couldn't help but chuckled as he looked at the man, his thumbs tucked into his belt. "You must think we're stupid." He looked at the others, but instead of seeing offended agreement, their reactions were ones he was not at all expecting.

Aramis shrugged, and smiled congenially—she was always one for some loving, never saw the harm in it. Porthos chuckled, very nearly a giggle, her mind going a bit dirty. d'Artagnan looked to Athos, the voice of reason, and the twitch of her brow threw sanity out the window.

"Apologies," d'Artagnan said. "I've just come to realize that we are exactly that stupid, do as you please, _Monsieur_. We'll just wait here. Have no worry."

Athos nearly rolled her eyes at the Gascon's sarcasm. She addressed Bonnaire, "I must have your guarantee that you won't try to escape, _Monsieur."_

"You have my word on it." Bonnaire said firmly. Porthos gave him the raised brows. "As a gentleman." He swore.

* * *

"I can't believe that you guys agreed to this," d'Artagnan protested, sitting astride his horse alongside the inn.

"Come on," Aramis played, next to him on her own horse. "Relax. Have a little fun!"

"He's going to escape, you know." He pointed out.

"He will." She nodded. "So why not get it out of the way now? Show him who's boss?" Bonnaire clabbered out the window on the second story window and onto the roof. "Right on time!" she smiled as he dropped sloppily to the cobblestones below and rushed to jump into the waiting cart on the street. Both man and woman had that same experience, on the same day no less, though they didn't know it; one hiding from her lover's lover, the other fleeing from a small mob, accused of murder he didn't commit, by a woman he had a one-night stand with. "Come on," she said, and tapped her horse's ribs, walking after the moving cart.

Porthos leapt upon the wagon bench with ease, the driver oblivious. She grinned back at Bonnaire, laughing at the look upon his face at seeing her there. "Come sit up 'ere, won't you? I don't think your friend will mind." She pointed her pistol at the startled driver, who gave a yelp, jumped from the bench and ran away.

With a tight and reluctant expression, Bonnaire climbed up onto the bench next to the tall Musketeer.

Aramis spurred her horse a little faster and pulled ahead of the wagon. She called back slyly to Bonnaire. "That was a rather quick moment with your wife, _Monsieur_. I hope that you didn't leave her wanting, because who know when you shall see her again."

Bonnaire turned red at the suggestion of his ineptness and Porthos laughed next to him. Her rider-less horse attached to the back of the wagon and Athos and d'Artagnan bring up the rear.

* * *

The group decided to take pause at a derelict building they had come across, when Aramis felt unease inside of her. Her steed shifted uneasily next to her as she tied its lead off a piece of broken fencepost. She turned and started to walk towards Athos and d'Artagnan, and it was clear in the unnatural quiet, punctuated by a snapping branch, that an ambush was afoot.

"Come out with your weapons down!" Aramis shouted into the silence.

"That was awfully cordial." Athos remarked.

"I like to be polite…" Aramis shrugged. "Sometimes."

"Aramis!" d'Artagnan screamed at the man running at her from behind. With reflexes quicker than Aramis spinning around, Athos drew her pistol and fired. Aramis had only time to give her friend a thankful look, before the shot was like a starter and a dozen men spilled from the scenery and attacked.

"Ambush!" Athos shouted, and pulled her sword. "Porthos! Protect Bonnaire!"

And then they were in the melee, with Musketeer sword meeting makeshift clubs and staffs, and farmers tools. They were much the same who had attacked Bonnaire back in Le Havre.

d'Artagnan and Athos fought nearly back to back, and he remembered the time that he had challenged the woman to a duel, and was happy and thankful that he was now fighting _with_ her and not _against_ her.

Aramis cried out at the thunderclap of pain in her lower-back, as she was struck by a chain that wrapped around her hips like a vice. It's master gave a hard tug and the woman was jerked to the ground, her sword lost to her.

She quickly rolled onto her back, gritting her teeth at the sharp throbbing heat in her back, and grabbed the links that led to the man, and tugged the chain towards her with equal strength.

The man let out an exclaim as he stumbled toward Aramis, unprepared, and right onto her main gauche. The man grunted as the dagger stabbed deep into his abdomen, helped even deeper by his own weight. She felt him tense in a flash of pain and surprise, and then his body was lax as his last breath wheezed wetly with blood against her shoulder.

His dead weight weighed heavy across her body. It strained as she struggled to push the man's body from hers. She got to her feet, almost like an old woman, a quiet groan on her lips. And was in the process of unwinding the chain from around her waist, when another man charged at her. With a grunt, she swung the chain at him.

His eyes widened at the on-coming, heavy iron links, and lifted his wooden staff to block its dangerous path. The cane slowed it down, but ultimately didn't stop it, and broke apart. The chain snapped around behind the man's ear and he collapsed to the ground dead. The back of his skull bloody and caved.

Panting lightly, she dropped the chain, and, groaning quietly, bent to retrieve her fallen sword.

Porthos did as Athos ordered, and stayed by the wagon to protect Bonnaire—who was cowering under the cart, whimpering like a babe. She fought two at a time, which wasn't much of a challenge for the woman, and though their weapons were mediocre, hand-made wooden staffs, they were wily buggers. By a chance tag-team attack that had her back turned, they broke her sword and left her open to a back assault.

For an instant, the axe in the back of her shoulder was more of a surprise than a pain, but then that came, and it came hard. Her knees went almost immediately and she fell to the ground, overwhelmed with pain, and defenceless against further attack.

"Porthos!" Aramis screamed, turning and running to her fallen sister. She skewered that axe-wielding man through the back as he was in mid-overhead strike.

d'Artagnan quickly finished off his current opponent, anxiety stabbing through him at Aramis' cry, so shrill and filled with fear, that he feared the worst.

"Enough!" a new voice called behind Aramis, her only thoughts of Porthos, as the last surviving men fled. Smart, because they never would have survived her rage. "You have a man down. I have no qualm with you. Surrender Bonnaire, and you're free to go!"

A new man made an appearance, the orchestrator of this attack. Athos faced him with a cold quality. "Out of the question, sir. Bonnaire is in the custody of the King's Musketeers and he shall stay there until our arrival in Paris, where he shall answer to His Majesty."

Knowing Athos would have that well-in-hand, d'Artagnan quickly secured Bonnaire—the object of everyone's keen interest—and offered his help to Aramis.

Bonnaire awkwardly cleared his throat. "Ladies, allow me to introduce my business partner, Paul Meunier."

"On the face of it, I would say your partnership isn't going well." Aramis snapped from beside Porthos, anger filling her usual gentle tone.

The round, squat man offered an explanation, clearly unhappy. "I funded Emile's expeditions for eight years, and yet, I discover his ship has arrived, my cargo is nowhere to be found," as he spoke, Athos slowly approached, "and he's made no contact with me."

"There was no... there was no time, Paul. I was forced to travel to Paris without warning." Bonnaire stammered.

Meunier narrowed his eyes around Athos at the man. "Hand him over and we will be on our way."

Athos shook her head. "I sympathize with you grievances, _Monsieur_. No doubt you partner is a cheat and a swindler. However, it is our duty to deliver him safely to Paris. So, you must wait and seek justice there."

"I'm not leaving without him." He refused.

Athos aloof tone turned hard. ""That is unfortunate, because neither are we."

"I don't suppose I have a say in this, do I?" Bonnaire muttered and was ignored.

Aramis suddenly snarled, nearly like an animal, rage and impatience making her a tad unpredictable as she shoved to her feet from Porthos' side, shoved Bonnaire out of the way, and levelled her pistol at Meunier. "You're men deserted you, sir. _You_ are the one outnumbered, so I suggest you give up. Bonnaire is coming with us, so depart from here willingly, or I will depart _you_ from this life entirely."

"Aramis." Athos gave her a sharp look and after a tense moment, the Spaniard lowered her gun and returned to Porthos.

Athos was sure that they could solve this peacefully, even after Aramis' outburst, and with an offer of peace, she convinced Meunier to speak with her reasonably, Bonnaire in their company.

"I will inform the Cardinal of your claims against Bonnaire." Athos told him.

"How do I know you won't betray me?" Meunier questioned with suspicion.

She narrowed her blue eyes. "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that." She paused, watching the man closely. "If I see your scouts on the road again, there won't be any second chances."

His brows furrowed. "What scouts?"

She stifled the sigh. "Two men in black. They've been on our tail since Le Havre." She turned.

"They're not mine." He said and Athos gave him both a surprised and concerned look before she schooled her features. Meunier sneered at Bonnaire, "I'm not the only man with an account to settle with Emile Bonnaire." And with that, Meunier departed.

Athos returned to the wagon with their trouble and planted him on the bench of the cart, and looked at Porthos with a tight heart.

Porthos couldn't believe she'd been hit. She'd allowed herself to be distracted, for those two men to turn her attention, make her expose her back. "Will I loose my arm?" she worried, she couldn't be a Musketeer with one arm. She couldn't go back, back to before Treville found her.

"No," Porthos felt relief for a brief second, that was, before Aramis continued with, "but you might lose your life."

"That bad?" Athos asked.

Aramis nodded tightly. "It requires needlework, and soon."

"Will she make it to Paris?" She was all to aware of where they were, how close. It was too close.

Aramis' expression was grave as she looked up from her best friend. "She won't make it to the next village—unless I get a chance to sew up this wound."

"We should leave the road and look for shelter." d'Artagnan said. He knelt next to Porthos with Aramis, holding the wine skin as the markswoman started to tie off the other woman's shoulder wound.

"Not here." Athos insisted, it tearing at her heart, even as she said. She didn't think she could bear it, going back there. Even after all these years, the wounds were still too fresh, like they were happening that very second. "We will ride on for a few miles and then find somewhere."

"Porthos isn't fit to ride anywhere." Aramis told her.

"Get her on the cart." Their leader ordered d'Artagnan.

Anger flashed through Aramis' normally charismatic eyes as this, and she grabbed d'Artagnan's hands and pressed them against Porthos' wound. "Like this." The dark-skinned woman grunted in pain. "Didn't you hear what I said?" The Spaniard leapt to her feet and was on Athos in a second. "If we don't operate soon, she'll die!"

"We wait until it's dark." Athos insisted coldly.

"What's the matter with you?" Aramis grabbed her, her lips twisted into a snarl. Athos' expression didn't change. "Don't you care about Porthos?"

Of course she did. "Alright." She was just having a moment of pure selfishness and cowardice. "I know somewhere, nearby." She could do this. Porthos' health was more concern than her mind. Aramis released her to go back to Porthos, and she turned away.

"Why didn't you mention it before?" d'Artagnan wondered in confusion as Aramis checked the wound's makeshift bindings, but the woman didn't answer.

Aramis was tight-lipped and just as confused as the young man. What could it be that Athos would rather risk their friend's life? "We've got to move you, Porthos. Brace yourself."

With a nod to d'Artagnan, the two set about getting the injured woman into the back of the small, covered wagon. It was clear that she was trying to muffle her cries of pain through clenched teeth.

It made his heart ache that he was helping to cause Porthos more pain than the woman was already in. But he knew already that she was just too damn stubborn let the pain take her to oblivious land, even if it would have done her better.

"Sorry, Porthos!" he cringed at the woman's wretched cry as he pulled her into the back of the cart.

"Agh! You could do wha'ever you wanted t'me an' I won't feel it for th' pain." She gasped with wry amusement.

Aramis gave a light chuckled as she helped settle her injured friend on her uninjured side. "If our Charlie were any less of a man, you might have to watch out, sister."

"Eh. I wouldna mind tha'."

d'Artagnan's face went hot with blush as the suggestions the conversation had suddenly taken. "Can you two please stop speaking?" his voice was a slightly higher pitched than normal.

"Ooh. You can't see it, Porthos, but he's blushing like a maiden!" Aramis crowed.

He ignored the sniggering pair and climbed up front onto the bench, already occupied by an amused-looking Bonnaire. d'Artagnan sent the older man a hard look, and the smirk fell from his lips. It was his fault that Porthos was injured, he had nothing to smile about.

Aramis patted Porthos' hip and saddled on her own horse at the back, staying near her friend.

"Athos," the Gascon called, "We're set."

Already astride her steed, her back to him, she gave a short nod and spurred her horse. d'Artagnan cracked the reins and the mule took up pace. Aramis, and the two rider-less, Musketeer horses led at the back.

The ride was met with a halting conversation that was somehow struck up between Porthos and Bonnaire, of the man's grand plans to own a tobacco farm with cheap help and Porthos agreement upon possibly joining in his enterprise; punctuated by the woman's grunts of pain at nearly every bump along the way.

Behind d'Artagnan was his worry for Porthos, and in front of him was his confusion at Athos.

Finally, much to everyone's relief (though Athos seemed to grown more tense as they went), they rode through a small hamlet, its tenants stopping their work with murmured whispered as they passed, and were slow to came upon a grand, if derelict, chateau.

"I'll tell you something." Bonnaire took in the sight. "If this place is for sale, I might be interested."

"It's not." Athos replied.

"No. You're right. It's a bit dark."

"I don't suppose there's anything to take the edge off." Porthos groaned from the bed of the carriage, very near her threshold.

"There'll be wine inside." Athos said.

"Oh." Bonnaire shook his head. "Oh, I have something better. a bottle of rum bouillon." He started to dig around in his bag, "Colonists make it out of sugar molasses. So potent, they call it killdevil."

Porthos very much liked the sound of that right now. "We'd best get acquainted then." Bonnaire passed it back to Aramis with a chuckle, who helped Porthos drink.

They finally pulled to a halt outside the front, and d'Artagnan jumped from the bench and started around back to help Aramis. "So, how did you know about this place?" he asked the still mounted Musketeer.

Athos was quiet for a long moment before she admitted to something that no longer brought her pride. "I own it. "

That revelation was a shocking one. d'Artagnan glanced at Aramis and it was clear that even the Spaniard, after years of being Athos' friend, didn't know the little fact that she was the Comtesse de la Fère. But that nugget was going to have to wait. A surprising delve into Athos veiled past was not as important at the moment, as saving Porthos' life.

d'Artagnan and Armis carried Porthos into the dinning room, Athos leading the way and Bonnaire scurrying behind. They laid her stomach down on the table.

"My—" Aramis started, but Athos was already setting her saddle bag on the table. She nodded her thanks and immediately turned to the woman's wound.

d'Artagnan pushed Bonnaire into a chair by the wall and turned the table, ready in case he was needed.

Aramis unbound Porthos' shoulder and the woman hissed through her teeth. The Spaniard tried to get a good look at the wound, but tsked and shook her head.

"Doublet's got to go, Porthos. I can't get at the wound otherwise." The injured woman grumbled. "Help me, or I'll cut it away."

Porthos assisted after that. The blood and tear was bad enough, but repairable. If Aramis cut it, it might as well be forfeit.

And when Aramis said, gone, she meant gone.

d'Artagnan's eyes widened when she got a glimpse the woman's ribs and perhaps a graze of something else that he shouldn't have—and put heat in his cheeks. He turned away. "Face the wall!" d'Artagnan snapped at Bonnaire, when he caught the man trying to peek. Bonnaire had a sour look on his face, but did as commanded.

"Alright." Aramis murmured. "It's all clear now, Charlie." She sounded amused, and looked it, too, when d'Artagnan cautiously faced them. Porthos was back on stomach, her breasts covered by her discarded shirtsleeves.

He swallowed at the supple curve of her back, the colour of light cocoa powder. For some reason, it seemed to feel all the more real that Porthos was a woman. Of course, he knew the Inseparables were women, but he'd never seen any of them as vulnerable and as exposed as Porthos was now. Their uniforms did much to disguise their bodies. Unbidden, the remarks Porthos and Aramis made in the cart came back to him.

"Porthos?" he cleared the lump from his throat.

Porthos turned her head towards the young man, her cheek pressed against the table. "'M alright." She said, though the pain of it shone clearly in her dark brown eyes. "'M in good 'ands now, aren't I, 'Mis?"

"That you are, my friend." Aramis nodded, threading her needle with a long strand of horsehair. "That you are."

He turned his still anxious gaze onto the Spaniard, who gave him a gentle smile in return. "Stitching it up will be the first order of business."

"Fine needlework, Aramis does." Porthos hissed through her teeth, grinning. "Should 'ave been a seamstress."

Aramis smiled and gestured to a scar on Porthos back. "Two inches deep, the blade went, but you wouldn't know, would you?" Her finger traced another at her hip. "This one, I trussed up during a skirmish we had in Poitiers. Stitching that's fine enough for the Queen's chemise."

"I agree." d'Artagnan deadpanned. "But perhaps you should save this for another time?"

"Mm."

"If I'm not needed..." Athos remarked, and headed straight for the door. She needed to get out of there. She needed—

"Oh. Before you go," Aramis said, and the older woman paused. "Could you prepare the patient?"

Taking a silent, deep breath, Athos turned back. d'Artagnan furrowed his brows as Athos gave a grim nod and stood in front of the laid out, injured woman. "Porthos?"

"Mm?" Porthos picked her head off the table and looked up at their leader.

 _wham!_ Athos punched her without reserve, and Porthos' head fell back to the table, unconscious.

"What are you? Brutes?!" Bonnaire exclaimed, wide-eyed at the event, having had turned back at Aramis' allowance to d'Artagnan.

He wasn't the only one. d'Artagnan was in a similar state. "What did you do that for?!"

"It was for her own good, and ours, too." Athos said. "We've learned that from experience."

Aramis nodded. "It's true. She doesn't handle the pain well, and lashes out, even when it just makes things worse." She petted the woman hair soothingly, brushing her long braid out of the way. "I would like to not have to stitch more than one wound at any given mission—preferably, none at all granted."

d'Artagnan watched Athos leave, his brows knitted in concern to the odd way the woman was acting, but was soon distracted as Aramis bent stiffly over Porthos and started to clean and stitch it close.

* * *

It was like a suffocating weight on her chest. Athos had tried so hard to bury it, to repress these feelings of her past. Drink was her go-to. It made the memories too hazy to recall properly, it dulled them. But when she had been imprisoned in the Chatelet, on the day that d'Artagnan walked into the garrison and accused her of murdering his father, she had thought that she was truly, to finally meet her end. And if she was honest with herself, which wasn't often, it was almost a relief. To be free of the pain, the guilt, the shame, the loss.

All of it.

But then she wasn't to die, Aramis and Porthos, and d'Artagnan, too—they had saved her from execution. But now that she back, she was here in the blueprints of her past; the emotions were overwhelming. She needed to be alone, from the others. She didn't want them to see her struggle, to ask her questions. Aramis was smart enough to know when not to, but d'Artagnan would have no such reserve.

That room, she could hardly have taken it. It was the room that she found _her_ covered in her brother's blood, his body just laying there, sprawled on the floor. Gone forever, by her hand.

She very nearly lost the contents of her stomach on the floor. But after guiltily using the excuse of knocking Porthos unconscious, to have a brief outlet for the flooding emotions, she was able to escape.

Her fingers created tracks in the thick dust that was collected on every surface that she touched, each bringing back a flash of memory and past that spanned from when she was a small girl, holding her baby brother for the first time; to when her father first taught her to shoot a gun; to the lessons he gave on ruling the estate of Pinon when he was gone; to his death and the first time that she met Anne not long after.

Anne. She was both Atho's heartthrob and her heartache. After her father died, it had been just her and Thomas—and then she had found Anne. Back then, she wasn't Athos, back then, she was just plain old Olivia. And the beautiful dark-haired, green-eyed woman had had given her something she'd never felt before—true love. She fallen for this woman, who'd come into her life when she was needed the most and Athos had never thought twice about it.

Athos had found her the small sitting room, not realizing that was where she was until she'd stepped into the abandoned room.

 _Olivia tried to fight the grin as she made her way through the house where she knew that she would find Anne. Ignoring the side-glances from the servants, and unaware of drawing Thomas' attention in passing. She paused in the doorway and gazed openly at Anne sitting at the small table, it's surface crowded with her favourite flowers._

 _"They're like a carpet on the grass outside." Anne sighed, smiling. "Forget-me-nots." She stood and turned to the other woman. "Here." And she walked to the woman, standing close, and tucked one such flower into her simply pinned locks. "Beautiful." She kissed the woman's cheek._

 _"And I have something for you."_

 _"Oh?" she looked at the brunette in curiosity._

 _Olivia revealed to her a locket, and inside, painted by the Comtesse' own hand, a forget-me-not. "A flower for you, that shall never wilt, my love." And she put it around the woman's slim, pale neck._

 _"A memento." She gasped. "A perfect day. A perfect life." Anne wrapped her arms around the other woman, pulling her close. Olivia kissed her, breath gasping, their tongues pressing against each other._

 _Anne's fingers brushed the edge of the door, giving it a gentle push shut, but not before Thomas saw. And then Olivia was pushing her back, against, onto the table_ — _a bed of forget-me-nots to make love upon._

Athos gasped, stumbling back a step as she came back into reality. She could feel Anne's lips against hers still, a ghost's impression. It ached so harshly. She turned from the room and found the wine cellar fast enough, and a much needed bottle of wine.

* * *

It had grown late and was Bonnaire bedded-down on the other side of the room. And Porthos was now resting comfortably (or as best as her long-limbs could) on the settee. Athos had disappeared after knocking Porthos out, and the concern he felt after the woman was always at the back of his mind. This place was obviously bringing back memories for the Comtesse, but whether they were good or bad, was yet determined.

d'Artagnan's ears perked as he caught the quiet grunt from Aramis as she bent over the chair, sorting through her saddle bag. "Aramis?" he asked, stepping next to her. "Are you injured?"

There was a minute pause from the woman, and he cursed. She would be too concerned for Porthos to mind herself, and if he'd learned anything during his time with these stubborn Musketeers, it was that they showed more concern for each other, than themselves (though his father always said he possessed the same self-mind).

"Aramis..."

"It's nothing," she denied.

He narrowed his eyes. "Tell me," he said, knowing it was the only way, "and I'll tell you."

"What?" she spun around to him with an accusing look. "Your—" she cut off at the gasp of pain the movement caused. "Tell me, Charlie. Right now."

He shook his head in refusal. "I'll only show my injury, after we tend to yours—which is clearly in need of more attention than mine."

"I swear—"

"Aramis," he sighed. "Porthos is okay. She'd resting. Now it's your turn."

"You should have told me you were injured!" she protested.

He raised a sceptical brow at her. "I just following after my superior's example." She glowered at the low blow. "Are you going to make me get Athos?"

It turned into a hard scowl, but denied the suggestion on defeat. If d'Artagnan was hiding an injury from her, she would do what she would have to do to tend to it—even if that meant giving herself up. She started to undo her weapons belt.

"Whoa!" he held up his hands. "Where exactly is this thing located?"

She gave a small chuckle and shook her head. "Get your brain out of you pants, kid. It's just my back." She winced as she moved onto the buckled-strap across her chest, before she removed her frock coat and set it on the back of the chair with the others, leaving her in naught grey-blue shirtsleeves and a pliable corset underneath (the latter of which she also removed). He averted his gaze modestly.

She wasn't afraid or ashamed of her body. She, Porthos, and Athos had seen all manner of each other. Be it naked, injured, sick, drunk... and all manner of all else. d'Artagnan was their brother now, a soldier, and sometimes he was going to see things, some of the time. It was unavoidable, inevitable. (She knew he caught a glimps of Porthos earlier). Just like they were going to see things of him. If they didn't trust each other now, then what was the point? In their line of work, there was no place for distrust or shame.

She turned her back to the young man and grasped the hem of her shirtsleeve, raising the shirt on her back whilst keeping her chest covered.

All of her layers, the corset, her frock, her many belts and straps—they saved her from any permanent damage, but that didn't mean there was none to speak of. His sharp inhalation spoke to that.

Carrying the woman, and then hunched over Porthos, stitching her wound with more than a dozen stitches; it hadn't done her back any favours.

"Describe it to me." She instructed.

There was silence for a moment behind her, and she could feel his breath ghost across the assaulted flesh as he leaned forward for a closer inspection. "It's bruised pretty bad, Aramis." He whispered, and his fingers ghosted above the flesh as he could actually see some of the design of the chain links. "Some vessels are broken..."

"The muscle's bruised," Aramis agreed, able to feel it pretty keenly. "And inflamed."

"Do you have anything for it in your bag?"

"There should be a salve in a small tin." She could hear him digging around for it.

"I don't want to hurt you further," he stated, tentative.

Aramis thought it sweet, really. But she could turn around and cuff him upside the head in that moment. "It's going to hurt either way," she said instead. "At least like this, it'll hurt less afterward."

"Right."

She bit her lip for the pain, but soon, as d'Artagnan rubbed the ointment into her skin, she could feel the soothing warmth of it that coated the hurt. She gave a soft sigh as he finally took a step back.

Aramis instantly turned to the Gascon, her shirt hardly settling back around her hips. "Show me."

A couple drops of dread filled the young man. "Alright." She was going to take a bite out of him when she found out. He took a deep breath and held out his left palm.

Brows furrowed, she took his hand and inspected it. "What—?" All she saw was all the earmarks of a sliver at the joint in the thumb. When she looked up at him, he gave her a sheepish grin.

"I didn't say exactly _how_ I was injured."

The corners of her lips were tight with displeasure at this revelation. He had tricked her clean and good. She gave the minuscule scratch a flick before she released his hand and he pouted at her back as she turned from him.

"Aramis." The Spaniard instantly turned back to him at his tone. "Athos. She..."

Aramis shook her head. "It's not our concern, Charlie." She sighed. "Athos, like all of us, has a past—one she clearly tried to leave behind—and it's her decision how she chooses to come to terms with it. As long as it doesn't affect our mission..."

The Gascon looked reluctant to let it go, nonetheless.

* * *

 _A grin curved Olivia's lips as she kissed Anne's supple neck as they lay naked, tangle in the bed sheets._

 _"Swear nothing will come between us?" Anne whispered._

 _Olivia looked up at her. "I swear."_

 _Anne wrapped her arms around the other woman and rolled them, laying across her as she kissed her heatedly._

* * *

d'Artagnan woke the next morning to Porthos' groan. He'd slept all night upright in a chair, and he felt the kink in his neck and the ache in his back. Bonnaire was already awake, working on some papers from his paper canister, and Aramis was absent.

"Porthos? How're you feeling?"

"Alright." The woman rubbed at her jaw. "But, I swear—did someone punch me?"

"Uh... not that I know." He paused. "I'll just get some water." He quickly put his boots on and grabbed the jug from the table. He wasn't sure how the woman would react to the truth, so he thought it better to leave it alone for now—leaving Porthos and Bonnaire to chat.

He headed out the door and cut through a small, corner hall. He paused at the sight of Athos, gazing at small grouping of three portraits at the one corner. One was obviously of Athos, posed in a dress, she was nearly unrecognizable, but he'd know those piercing blue eyes anywhere. Next to that was a young man. And the third portrait, the canvas was torn and it's occupant's portrayal corrupt.

"Hey. What happened here?" He came beside Athos and gestured to the torn painting.

Athos almost jumped at his sudden intrusion, so deep inside herself with the still ambushes of memories that continued to assault her. "Vandals, I suppose." Though it truth, she'd done it herself. Unable to look at the devil's face painted there, smiling at her, mocking.

d'Artagnan shook his head sadly. "And this? Who is this?" He gestured to Thomas' portrait.

"Thomas, my younger brother." She responded in a monotonous manner. "Everyone's favourite."

"What happened to him?"

"He dead." She turned to the single window that overlooked a tree on a small hill in the distance, shrugging off the Gascon's sympathetic eyes.

It looked just like it did, all those years ago.

 _The priest pressed his lips to the Crucifix around his neck in a silent prayer to God. Anne wore a white, lace dress with bands around her elbows. It was similar to the dress she might have worn on her wedding day, had Athos been a man. In her hands, was a small bouquet of forget-me-nots. But it wasn't to be. It was to be this. It was to be her death sentence. Her hands were grasped and dragged behind her by Remi, a close friend to Olivia, a grim expression on his face as he bound her wrists._

 _Instead of in the grass, she stood upon the bed of a handcart._

d'Artagnan sighed at Athos' distant and distracted look, and continued on outside to the well.

He was just returning with the water, when Aramis shouted his name from the front of the house, and, dropping the jug, ran for the woman. She stood, with an eyeglass to her eye, looking down the distance that they had rode on the previous day. He squinted, and in the distance, he could see a rider.

"Is it Paul Meutier?" he asked.

Aramis scoffed and inhaled. "You'd better take a look." She handed over the eyeglass.

d'Artagnan put it to his eye and saw the rider more clearly. "Bonnaire's wife. What's she doing here?" the question was filled with a wary quality.

Bonnaire rushed from the house upon seeing the rider, and Porthos followed more slowly.

d'Artagnan narrowed his eyes and pulled up his pistol, directing it at the fast approaching woman. Aramis gave him a look."What? I've still got the scar from the last time I underestimated her."

She shook her head at the young man before she turned her attention back at hand. "Stop there." She called to Maria.

The brown gelding came to halt, with Maria slumped over the saddle.

"Don't shoot!" Bonnaire shouted and d'Artagnan stuck out an arm to hold him back, not lowering his pistol.

"I came for you, Emile..." Maria gasp softly, "As I swore I would,"

Aramis wasn't sympathetic. "You've had a wasted journey, then."

Bonnaire exclaimed, "Can't you see she'd injured?"

Maria moaned. "I was attacked on the road. Two men dressed all in black..."

Shooting a glance at Aramis, d'Artagnan slowly approached. "Let me help you down." He reached up with his free arm.

Suddenly, not so injured anymore, she pulled a gun on him and d'Artagnan cursed his stupidity. "Patronize me one more time and you'll lose your head." He slowly raised his hands. "Drop your weapon." He did.

"Why, you fooled even me! My darling!" Bonnaire cheered at the turn of events.

d'Artagnan slowly turned and gave the Spaniard an embarrassed and apologetic look. Aramis silently groaned and reluctantly dropped her musket, though she wasn't want to see d'Artagnan without his head.

Maria jabbed him between the shoulder blades, prodding hid forward next to Aramis. With a grin, Bonnaire pushed past the pair. "Now, gentlewomen and man, fascinating as this has all been," he mounted the horse behind his wife, "I must dash."

Maria smirked at them. "I was Emile's scout in Brazil. There's nothing I can't find if I want to."

Bonnaire cheered. "And she chose to find me. True love is a beautiful thing"

Aramis' lips twisted in disgust at that, and the two jumped when Maria shot at d'Artagnan's feet, before she steered her horse around and galloped off.

Athos burst out of the house passed Porthos leaning against the entry for support, at the sound of gunfire. The two women and young man quickly got their steeds and rode after the pair, forced to leave Porthos behind; who cursed at feeling so useless and being left behind, unable to have her sisters' and brother's backs—but found a use for herself as she came across Bonnaire's papers, the ones that he had been so reluctant to show the woman.

Athos, Aramis and d'Artagnan just came upon the fleeing husband and wife as they were ambushed by the persistent men in black.

"Maria!" Bonnaire screamed as the man killed her with a shot from his pointed pistol, and she fell from the horse, already dead before she touched the ground. "Forgive me, my love." He whispered, leaping forward into the saddle and urging the horse off the path.

"Allow me!" d'Artagnan growled, and steered his stead after the man off the trail.

And Athos and Aramis faced the two men in black. "Hold your fire." Aramis called as the man was still attempting to reload. "We're King's Musketeers!"

But the man fired at them anyways. Luckily, he missed.

"Stop! Or I'll shoot!" Aramis slid from her horse and levelled her harquebus on the man as he turned to tried to flee, but the shot was simple and clean and he dropped to the ground. She'd warned him. He wasn't quite dead yet when the two Musketeers approached, gasping and chocking on blood, the through-and-through chest wound gaping.

 _"La resurrección de las muertos y eterna vida."_ The man gasped to Aramis in Spanish as she knelt by his side.

 _"Quien es usted? ¿Por qué estás aquí?"_ She questioned him urgently, but the man was too dead to answer.

Athos wasn't as fluent in Spanish as Aramis, though she was taught in lessons as a child, but she knew enough to understand the man—but this vague piece of information just confused things further. "Why would Spain send Agents after Bonnaire?" she wondered.

Aramis was just as confused as she.

* * *

"Come on, come on!" Bonnaire cursed as his horse refused to move under his ministrations. "You useless nag, for the love of God!"

There was an unamused twist to d'Artagnan's lips as he approached the man. "It's a classic mistake. A horse can gallop two miles, at most. If you'd have kept doing a nice, even canter, you might have escaped."

"Yes, I suppose if I were a farm boy, I'd know that sort of thing." He'd tried it as an insult, but d'Artagnan wasn't ashamed of his heritage.

"Yep." d'Artagnan shrugged and nodded. "Now," he pulled his pistol and levelled it at what little heart the man had, "Want to try again?" he raised a hard brow, his horse shifting uneasily beneath him at his growing anger and irritation.

Bonnaire gave a nervous laugh, his brown gelding refusing to budge even as he dug his heels into the animal's ribs. "Can you blame a man for trying?"

"Yes." His tone was unforgiving. He leaned forward and took control of the mare's reins, and hissed, "It's your fault that Porthos is injured—she was protecting _you._ And your wife..." he shook his head and the other man glanced away, "She tried to rescue you, and you leave her dead. What kind of man are you?" He spat in disgust. "Get down. You can walk back. Give the horse a rest."

* * *

They finally returned to the chateau, Maria's body lain across her horse's back and just as d'Artagnan had suggest, Bonnaire bound and pulled behind the horse—much as d'Artagnan had been when the Red Guard had arrested him for illegal duelling.

Relieving the horse of its burden, the dead woman to be buried later, the four headed inside.

"Porthos!" Aramis admonished at seeing their injured party on her feet. "You shouldn't be up just yet, you—"

"You lyin', filthy swine!" the dark-skinned woman bellowed, and went straight for a surprised Bonnaire, amid three other surprised parties.

Porthos kicked him in the jewels, and kneed him in the face when he doubled-over in pain.

d'Artagnan and Athos quickly grabbed an arm, holding the woman back.

"No! What are you doing?" the Gascon shouted.

But Bonnaire didn't seem to be as confused. "I-I can explain," he stammered.

"Get off!" She strained against the pair, and for a moment got close enough to the man to kick at him.

"Porthos!" d'Artagnan worried, even injured, the woman had an unusual strength. She managed to get out of Athos' grip and gave Bonnaire one hell of a right hook—that tore her stitches and laid Bonnaire on his back.

d'Artagnan winced in sympathy at the sound of pain at the back of the woman's throat as she stumbled back and he steadied her. Aramis covered her face with a hand, groaning to herself about her needlework. He shot her a look, and at least she looked sheepish. But he also felt relief about her reaction, because that meant that despite this set back, the injured woman was coming along nicely.

"Porthos! Enough!" Athos shouted, her commanding tone at least enough to prevent the other woman from body-slamming the man. "What is going on?"

Porthos took several deep breaths and pointed at the papers scattered on the table with a finger, shaking from exhaustion and rage. "That's Bonnaire's cargo," she panted. Aramis collected a few of the papers and looked at them. |"Men, women, children—it's a slave ship."

Aramis looked up at her friend in horrified realisation. "Porthos..." she whispered. She knew exactly why the woman was reacting how she was. As disgusting and horrific as it was to a third party such as herself, it was personal for the other woman.

"The drawings make it look far worse than it really is." Bonnaire squeaked like a rat.

Aramis' grip tightened on the pages, and would have turned on Bonnaire herself if Porthos hadn't spoken up. "Look at this one." She pushed off d'Artagnan's and Athos' hands and stumbled to her best-friend. Aramis reached out with both a comforting and stabilizing hand. "People packed on the deck, like fish in the market. I envied 'im," she spat, in disgust at him and herself, "boasting about 'is plans to farm tobacco. Boasted that labour is cheap out there." She turned on the man, "Well, it isn't cheep labour, is it, Bonnaire? Its stolen labour, stolen lives!"

"I am not a prejudiced man!" he shouted, heedless to all the deathly glares sent in his direction. "This is business. Strictly business!"

"The business of misery and sufferin'!" Porthos gasped sharply.

Her expression hard, her feelings knowing and disgusted, Athos put her mask into place as she turned to her friend and fellow Musketeer, "It's our duty to protect him."

Porthos, Aramis and d'Artagnan looked at the woman in shock.

"And turn a blind on to 'is crimes?" Porthos demanded.

Athos' expression was grim, but she was relentless. She was their leader, Treville's second, it was her duty to make the hard choices, and this was one such time. "Slavery is cruel and disgusting," Porthos grabbed her black leather doublet, but she was unmoving, "But it's not a crime."

Porthos scoffed as she looked into her friend's eyes that seemed cold, even when she knew they were not. "I heard stories about those ships, as a child." She sniffed, the tears ever gathered in her eyes, but never falling, "Of hellish stories." She finally released the woman and looked at the others. "Know why they were shackled? Hm? To step 'em jumpin' overboard." Her lips twisted and unshed tears made her eyes shine. "Yeah, 'cause that's better, than watchin' your friends, your family, your children, die of starvation, and sickness, and hopelessness." A tear slipped from her eye, and traced over the scar that lay across her eye.

d'Artagnan was completely horrified at what Porthos was describing. He couldn't imagine hearing that as a child and to not be affected. It was a horrible thing to do to any person, but to have a parent go through that like Porthos had... it was unthinkable.

Aramis looked at her best friend. "You'll get your justice, Porthos." She narrowed her eyes at Bonnaire. "The King will see to that."

Knowing that she would be unable to kill or attack Bonnaire, now that the others were on their guard, Porthos shoved past them, the back of her shoulder marked fresh with blood. She knew they cared, knew that they wanted Bonnaire to pay as she did, but they couldn't know how deep inside of her this was.

Porthos didn't remember much of his mother. She was too young when the woman was lost to her. But she couldn't forget about the stories that she would tell her. About her home being West America before she was captured and put in shackles aboard a ship to be slave sold off somewhere, not as a person, but a thing; and how she'd come to France when she was eventually freed. Freed and had her. How her true name was Izzie… but was left to raise herself in the Court of Miracles, she'd given herself the name Porthos du Vallon. She wanted to cherish the first thing that her mother had ever given her when she was born into his harsh world, for herself.

After a look shot at Athos, and shove of her own at Bonnaire, Aramis quickly followed her sister.

* * *

Porthos stifled her whimper of pain in a bottle of Athos' dusty wine, as Aramis repaired the needlework to her wound.

"You couldn't have used your left arm, at least?" she asked as she worked.

"Doesn't Jesus say: turn the other cheek?" Porthos murmured.

"He does." Aramis' brows furrowed in confusion. "What does that have to do with this?"

"Scum should 'ave turned the other cheek, then I would 'ave punched him there, too!" she growled, drinking more wine.

"I don't think that's entirely what he meant." Aramis couldn't help the small smile at that. She sighed. "Just be more careful. Please!" She cut the thread.

Porthos snorted but nodded. "If all nuns were like you, th' world would be a better place."

Aramis chuckled softly as she wrapped the wound in fresh bandages. "I think you mean a more dangerous place."

Porthos shook her head. "Nah. A funner place." The Spaniard grinned at her friend's way of thinking. "Oi, what're you doin'?" She protested as the sharpshooter just kept wrapping and wrapping until it wasn't just her shoulder, but her arm, too, now bound to her chest.

"Just a little insurance," she said. "I'll not be stitching this wound a third time, you hear me?" she stood and dusted off her hands and Porthos glared through eyes rimmed in pain and drink as she finished off the bottle.

* * *

Athos was a cruel mistress and assigned Porthos to watch Bonnaire as he dug a grave for his late wife.

"So, what's it like? Buying people?" Porthos' voice was rough, her face a hard mask of burning anger and disgust. "I suppose you have a shopping list."

"Actually, I do." He said absentmindedly almost, as he dug. "Makes the whole process a lot easier."

"I'll bet." She spat.

Bonnaire glanced at her, sick of this treatment. "It isn't a choice between freedom and slavery. It's choice between one life as a slave and another. If I don't buy 'em, someone else will. And, believe you me, I'm offering by far the better life."

"Men are born free." She growled. "No one has the right to make slaves of them."

He scoffed. "Yes, but the real world isn't driven by romantic notions of freedom, is it? It's driven by commerce. And I'm a trader. that's all. I deal in commodities."

"A man is not a commodity."

Bonnaire didn't look away as he said, "Oh, in Africa, he is." He looked over Porthos' shoulder to where Aramis and d'Artagnan were preparing Maria's body for burial. "Poor Maria. She came here to free me, and this is her reward."

"Crocodile tears," Porthos spat at the man from where she sat in the grass. "You didn't love her."

"You're wrong!I did love her." Bonnaire denied, knee-deep in dirt. "I owed it to her courage to escape."

She shook her head in disgust. "But she did you, despite your scales—and this is what she gets." She gestured at the sloppily dug grave.

Though she wished they were burying _him_ instead, she had a duty to uphold. She was a Musketeer, and she must set her personal feelings aside—though she honestly didn't see why they couldn't hand him over to the King with a few broken bones. Who knew, he might've fallen of his horse on the journey back to Paris for all anyone else had to know.

Her pleasant thoughts were interrupted as Aramis and d'Artagnan approached, the latter of which was caring the shrouded body of Maria and she again felt her anger towards the man turn hot.

As d'Artagnan laid the woman in the grave, Bonnaire collapsed onto his knees and started to sob. "Forgive me, my love. You deserved a better man." He cried. "I seem to have forgotten all my old prayers."

"Nothing that suffers can pass without merit in the sight of God." Aramis said a prayer for the woman, crossing her herself and pressing her lips to the crucifix that the Queen had given her, as they buried the woman. "Amen."

* * *

While everyone had been at the burial, Athos was fighting the overwhelming grievance of her own. She'd already drunk half a bottle of wine, the other half spilled red like blood on the dusty featherbed. It was their bed and it was like she could still smell Anne, feel her lingering warmth. With a low moan in the back of her throat, she came from the house and found herself at the quite literal hanging tree.

She hadn't been here since it happened. Despite its history, it was a beautiful place. They used to picnic here all the time. Athos remembered leaning against the tree, looking up at the sky through the fluttering leaves, Anne laying with her head pillowed in the Comtesse' lap.

Athos squeezed her eyes shut and sank down onto her haunches, her fingers shoved down into the flattened grass. Opening them again, she sucked in a breath at the sight of a clear white button tangled in the grass by her hand. With shaking fingers, she picked up the seemingly innocent button—but it was far from that…

 _There was an eerie calm to the woman now, as she stared at Olivia with a twisted hate as Remi put the noose around her neck._

 _Olivia sat astride her mount, wearing a black leather tunic and black breaches_ — _she was in mourning for her baby brother. She would forever be mourning. It was her fault that he was dead. She'd been selfish. She should have known who Anne truly was. But she'd been blinded by love._

 _"You may kill me now, Olivia." Anne whispered, and it carried on the breeze. "But you will never forget me! I own your heart, do you hear me? I own you heart and I'm never going to let it go. I love you to the ends of the Earth. So run away, turn your back, my love! Because you will never be free, trapped in this hell as I am sent to another!"_

 _As the cart was pulled away at Remi's hand, and the rope pulled taut, Olivia wheeled her horse around and rode away, the forget-me-not locket pressed against the flesh of her breast like a hot poker._

 _And she left behind Olivia Comtesse de la Fère, and became Athos, soon to be of the King's Musketeers_ — _once she was able to pull herself out of the bottle long enough to repaired herself into something that at least resembled a human. Forever running away from a devastated heart._

"Athos?"

* * *

When the four returned to the chateau, Athos was nowhere in sight. She hadn't been present for the burial, he hadn't seen the woman since their return with Bonnaire in hand once more.

"Where's Athos?" d'Artagnan wondered, worried. Aramis glanced at him. "I'll find her."

Aramis sighed, he worried too much sometimes. "Fine. But if she cuts your balls off for bugging her, don't come to me for medical attention, alright?"

d'Artagnan gave her a mocking smile, and found his gaze instinctively pulled to that same tall tree on the hill that he had seen Athos' gazing at with such a broken expression; and found the very same there. As the others went inside, d'Artagnan headed that way.

He was closing the distance, but from where she was crouched, Athos still didn't to notice him, drowning in remembrance. "Athos? What are you doing?" he said finally.

Athos shot to her feet in a blink, and turned to look at him, her expression a mask. "There's someone I need to see in the village." She told him and started to walked passed.

"Wait. What?" he grabbed her arm, stopping her.

She gave him a look and he released her, and paused long enough to comment. "You three will head back to Paris, there are some things here that I need to tend." She said.

"Athos?" d'Artagnan was confused and concerned. "What about the Spanish Agents, won't they still try for Bonnaire?"

She shook her head. "After his friend's death, he won't be trying again—for a bit at least. Might as well move while he's vulnerable."

"But—" d'Artagnaan stopped himself and took a breath. "If you're sure?"

The woman nodded. "We've spent enough time delaying already. I'll follow at day's end." And she started down the hill again.

Severely unsatisfied, and even more concerned, he called after her. "I should come with you. You haven't been yourself since we got to this place!"

Athos completely ignored his statement and called over her shoulder. "Keep an eye on Porthos. Don't leave her alone with Bonnaire."

"Wait!" he shouted and rushed after her. "Athos, please! We shouldn't split up like this."

"d'Artagnan," she said clearly. "Just get back on the road as soon as you can. Get Bonnaire to Paris. Tell the other my decision, I'll follow after shortly." And she left him looking after her, worry like bile in the back of his throat.

By the time he returned, Athos was already astride her steed and galloping to her destination.

"Well?" Aramis questioned when d'Artagnan returned to the chateau. "Did you find her?"

He nodded, though his expression had a grim quality to it. "She said to return to Paris as fast as possible and she would follow later, when she took care of some personal business."

"Alright." Aramis clapped her hands. "You heard the boss. Essentials only, let's get out of this place."

"What about my wagon?" Bonnaire protested. "I have gifts for the King."

"The wagon stays here." Aramis said firmly.

"We need to get to Paris as quickly as possible." Porthos told him again, sitting on the back of the settee, resting for the horse ride to come.

Bonnaire stood. "What do you think the King's going to do to me when he finds out that I don't have a gift for him?"

Aramis didn't look all that concerned as she wrapped her blue wrap around her waist and tied it off. "Quite ugly things, I'd imagine."

Porthos chuckled at the thought, but then said in all seriousness. "We should wait for Athos."

d'Artagnan jumped on that comment like it was a squealing piglet. "Porthos is right. We should wait."

Aramis shook her head at the young man. "And you should trust Athos to handle her own affairs." She cinched her weapons belt around her waist, noting the clenching of his jaw in tight response, even as she held but the grunt at the pressure on her still sore back. She headed outside and the other were forced to follow. "I'm serious, d'Artaganan. We're leaving now." His worry was a palpable thing in the air. "Let's move." Her tone took on a harder quality, that had him mounting.

They had packed and finally headed off, leaving behind the Comtesse, to whatever trouble she might find in town, alone.

Athos' chest grew tighter the closer she got, and she stared firmly ahead as she galloped to the village center, ignoring the stares from the tenants she had long ago left behind, as she passed.

Remi was Pinon's blacksmith, and a close friend to Athos back when. But when she made him hang Anne, made him bore that responsibility, he was a changed man, especially towards the Comtesse. After, they'd avoid each other. Athos found a new friend in drink, until she couldn't stand to stay any longer and she ran. But it was true, what Anne had screamed after her, all those years ago. She was running away, but Anne followed her, clung to her anyways, like the scent of a skunk that only she could smell. No matter how hard she tried, she could never let go of the Anne's locket. It was like an anchor on her ailing heart.

Smoke trailed from the cracked doors of Remi's shop, and it made her eyes water as she entered. "Remi." She caught sight of him almost immediately, sitting at the table, his back to her. He didn't react to her presence, but now that she was here, with someone who knew the truth of her past, she couldn't stop the musings that she had been holding these past years.

"Was it quick? Did she suffer much?" Athos finally came around the front of the man and stopped at the sight before her. It was no wonder the man hadn't reacted to her presence, she should have realized sooner but her emotions were crowding her thoughts. He was slumped slightly in the chair, blood poured down the front of his shirt from the slit in his throat, from ear-to-ear like some sick shit-eating grin, his fingers loosely wrapped around a knife.

She took a crushed breath. "I should never have involved you." She whispered, and left, unable to take the sight of him any longer. He had killed himself because of her, she knew. She had forced him to do something that they both wanted no part in, but had to be done. But she held the power, the authority, and like commanding officers that she hated, she'd passed on the order and made Remi carry it out.

It had changed him, like it had changed her.

When she returned to the cursed chateau, she went into the wine cellar and brought of a case of red wines. She poured glass after glass after glass, until finally, she just forwent the cup altogether and got her milk straight from the bottle. She needed to drown the guilt, smother it in the alcohol.

Athos wandered, drunkenly, and came to a halt in the small hall that held her, Thomas' and Anne's portraits. She stared at her own partite and hatred flared up inside of her, dark and consuming. With a cry, she hurled the wine bottle at herself. It shattered on the picture, red wine painting her face like blood.

"Thomas!" she sobbed, dropping to her knees. "Why? Why?! It should have been me!" Unable to stand his accusing stare, she dragged herself from the room and to another bottle of wine.

 _Olivia ran through the house and to the drawing room where she heard the screams, her heart racing. "What has happened?" she demanded, pushing through the small crowd of servants in the doorway. "What_ —" _She stopped short at the sight in front of her._

 _Her brother sprawled on the floor, blood pooled around him on the carpet, and her Anne standing over the body._

 _"Olivia!" Anne sobbed, her hands, the front of her dress, all covered in wet, gleaming red, a bloodied letter-opener on the floor at her feet._

 _"What_ — _What have you done? Anne!" Oliva screamed, rushing to her brother, even as she already knew it was too late. "Thomas!" Tears welled from her blue eyes._

 _"He knew!" She cried. "I had to, he knew about us! He... knew."_

 _Olivia looked up at her and her tears dried, and she turned cold. It was better this way, it didn't hurt as bad this way. "You murderess!" She climbed to her feet, blood staining her skirts. "You will be hanged for this."_

 _"What?" Anne exclaimed. "No!" she stumbled towards the Comtesse in despair. "I did it for us. Us! So we could be together. He was going to send me away, I couldn't leave you. I love you, Olivia."_

 _Olivia's lips twisted cruelly. "Arrest her!" Two of the male servants quickly took the woman into custody._

 _"No! Olivia! NO!" Anne screamed, struggling against their strength as they dragged her passed Thomas and passed Olivia. "Please!"_

 _But her pleas were fallen on deaf ears as Olivia's world fell apart around her._

Athos moaned, something rousing her through her drunken state. At some point, she'd passed-out, slumped beside the dead hearth in the dinning room. She slumped to the floor, she just wanted to go back into oblivion, the distorted, drunken darkness that was too confusing to make sense. But something was pulling her.

It took her several tries before she got her feet unsteadily beneath her and stumbled out the room and down the hall, leaning heavily on the wall as she squinted through the thickening smoke. As she drew nearer the orange glow. She stumbled into Anne's favourite sitting room, and stopped in front of the flickering flames that were licking at the wall.

She reached out slowly towards the flaming curtains, trying to ascertain if it was real or not in her intoxicated state. Close enough to feel the blistering heat, movement out of the corner of her eyes had her spinning to the door and stumbling backwards as, standing there was Anne holding a flaming torch, staring back at her coldly.

"You're dead." Athos slurred, almost accusing. "I watched you hang."

Milady, was in fact, not a figment of Athos' drunken psyche. She watched the confusion cloud her lover's eyes. "But you then didn't watch, did you?" she scoffed. "You couldn't stand to see your beloved girlfriend choking on the end of a rope."

Slowly, even drunk, realization dawned on her, and it felt crushing. Anger, confusion… "Remi." She should have realized that no one would kill themselves in such away, but she had been too distracted.

"I seduced him" Milady stepped into the room. "As soon as you fled, like a coward, he cut me down and revived me. But look." She reached up with a killer's hand and pulled the choker away from her pale and supple neck, the same Athos used to kiss, revealing the crisscross of thin scars. "I still bear the token of you love. Such a generous love."

Athos expression hardened as she glared at the other woman, "You killed Remi."

"Put him out of his misery." Milady corrected callously, taking another slow step forward. "He spent the last five years waiting for you to show up and discover his crime. He was half-dead already."

With a cry, Athos charged at her, unsteady. Completely sober, Milady spun fluidly out of her way, and the woman crashed into the doorjamb. Milady watched her in distasteful amusement as the woman turned, breathing heavily and leaned against the wall for a moment in weakness.

"I'm dreaming." She whispered to herself and stumbled from the wall.

"Drunk, perhaps. But not dreaming." And with a grunt, she swung the torch at her, striking Athos on the side of the head and sending her to the floor. Milady sneered down at the senseless woman, who struggled to roll onto her back.

Athos stared up at her. "Why are you here?"

"To erase the past. To destroy it completely." Milady paused. "I'm glad you came back." She set the torch down and knelt at Athos' side, her painted-red lips twisted cruelly. "It's right you should die with this house." And she pulled out a hidden dagger. "Die with him."

"The house, where you murdered my brother." Athos choked.

Milady grabbed her collar and jerked the woman up into her lap, and pressed the blade to her throat and spat, "I killed Thomas to save our love. But you threw it away like it was nothing!"

Athos glared up at the dead woman, hardly noticing or caring for the knife at her throat. "You killed him because he discovered the truth. That you were a criminal, who lied and tricked your way into my life. I was vulnerable after father's death, and you used that to steal my heart."

Milady screamed. "Thomas was a fool and a hypocrite. He deserved to die. I thought you would understand that." She looked away into the flames in pain, its light flickering warmly across her and moved the blade away.

Athos watched her in sorrow, and sobbed. Her warmth was so real, she could smell the woman. She missed her so much! Against her will, she curled into Milady's lap, an arm wrapped around her waist, pressing her face against the woman's breast.

"Olivia." Milady grasped a handful of the woman's tangle hair and kissed her head almost dispassionately.

"Anne..." Athos gasped.

Milady straightened at the name, and slowly pushed the drunken woman back, murmuring, "Perhaps it's best it ends like this." And she pressed the dagger back beneath the woman's chin.

"Do it." Athos whispered, urging. "Make it end." She lifted her chin. But Milady fingered the locket that had fallen out from Athos' open collar. She remembered the day that Athos had given this to her. She opened it and gazed with a broken look at the lightly faded forget-me-not on the inside. "Do it! What are you waiting for?!" Athos demanded, gripping her arm, pressing the blade to her throat deeper, breathing heavily, feeling the sting.

"I loved you!" Milady gasped, tears filming her green eyes. The blade nicked the delicate flesh and blood welled. She pressed harder. "You ruined my life!" She screamed. "I love you!"

"Athos! Athos, can you hear me?" Someone screamed from outside the house.

"d'Artagnan." Athos whispered in confused realization.

Pain flashed across Milady's face and pressed a harsh kiss to Athos' lips, before she jumped to feet and ran from the room. Her plan for revenge brought to a bitter halt.

"Athos!" d'Artagnan screamed, dismounted, frightened as he saw almost every window this side of the chateau alight inside from a spreading fire. "Athos!" He jerked around at the sight of a cloaked woman racing from the house on horseback. "What—? Athos!" he realized in horror and ran into the burning house, heedless.

Milady paused and watched him run into the house, feeling a twinge before riding away. How many times had she plotted the womans death? How man? It would be up to God whether the fire took them or not, this time.

d'Artagnan ran through the house, shouting his friend's name. His arm over his mouth and nose for the smoke, he had no choice but to go through room to room when he got no answering call. He coughed, and nearly missed the weak ones coming from nearby. He ran towards them and paused at the sight of Athos laying on the floor, struggling, before he kicked himself into gear and rushed to the woman. "Athos. It's me. It's d'Artagnan. Come on, get up. Get up!" He pulled the woman's arm over his shoulder, pulling her up. The woman was nearly a dead weight, and d'Artagnan wasn't sure if it was from smoke inhalation, or if she was completely drunk.

Knowing it would be faster and ignoring Athos' weak protests, he picked her up bridal-style and stumble from the building. He finally released her, wheezing, next to his horse and quickly grabbed his water skin. He dumped a portion onto the woman's face, bringing her lightly from her daze. He rubbed her face and neck, noting to smear of blood and brought her further around.

"What happen? Who was that woman?"

"Sine we arrived, I felt her presence everywhere." Athos murmured, not taking her eyes from the fire, the dazed quality in her voice as well. "I thought I was imagining it."

He grabbed the loose lapels of her open doublet and tugged at them, making her pay attention. "Who? Who?"

"My girlfriend." She blurted and d'Artagnan was shocked. "She died five years ago now, by my orders. She was a cold-blooded murderer, so I had her taken from the house and hung from the branch of a tree."

"Look at me. Look at me!" he demanded, smacking the woman's cheek lightly, trying to get her to focus and make sense. Praying that the smoke hadn't addled her brain. "Are you saying the ghost of your dead girlfriend tried to kill you? Athos, that's—"

Athos shook her head, stopping him before he could say that word; insane. "She's not dead, d'Artagnan. She survived."

That made a bit more sense, then. "This was her revenge?" He thought of the woman on the fleeing horse and felt an anger inside him towards the woman who would do this to his friend.

Athos sobbed. "It was my duty. It was my duty to uphold the law!" She grabbed d'Artagnan and gave him a weak shake of her own. "My duty to condemn the woman I love to death—for the murder of my brother." She clung to him, desperate for him to understand, to not judge her. "I've clung to the belief that I had no choice. Five years learning how to live in a world without her." Tears leaked from her blue eyes. "Only to find out that she's never left." She released him and pulled from his grip weakly. "What do I do now?" Breathless, she fell back onto the ground.

d'Artagnan looked down at the vulnerable woman, so glad that he hadn't listened to Aramis, and had come racing back. The gnawing in his stomach had never subsided, but seemed to grow the further he rode from Athos. If he had tried to ignore his feelings any longer, had delayed his return, Athos could be dead to them all right now. He never would have been able to forgive himself, had that happened.

* * *

The next morning, Porthos, Aramis and Bonnaire finally returned to Paris.

"I refuse to arrive at the Palace on an ass," Bonnaire declared, scowling with a deep voice. "And I am within my rights to demand a fresh set of clothes."

Aramis' look was a cold one, and Porthos' voice was just as frozen. "What rights?"

"The rights of every man to some fair treatment." Bonnaire claimed, astride his donkey. "Justice, dignity. Just a little dignity."

"You do know how ironic that sounds coming from a slave-trader, don't you?" Aramis pointed out.

"Yes." He nodded. "I've been thinking about that." He paused dramatically. "I'm out of the slavery business. Thank you for inspiring a new Emile Bonnaire."

Porthos shook her head at the man in disgust. "You'd say 'bout anythin' to save your own skin."

"Well, of course I would." He didn't even try to deny it. "Who wouldn't?" He chuckled.

Porthos joined him with a hollowed one of her own, and with exceeding forced, smacked the donkey's ass. It brayed loudly and bolted ahead, Bonnaire exclaiming as he was carried away unceremoniously.

Porthos looked over at her best friend. "'How do you think Athos is fairing'?"

Aramis sighed. "You're as bad as d'Artagnan!"

"You can't tell me you haven't been the least bit worried 'bout 'ow Athos had been actin'."

"Of course I have. I'm not blind and stupid, you know?" She drawled. "But you know how private she is. She can take care of herself."

"I 'ope you're right."

* * *

"Athos—"

The woman shook her head as they finally arrived in Paris after a long ride. "Not now, d'Artagnan—please." She was exhausted, mentally. Her head was pounding like it was being hammered against an anvil. It had been so bad at one point, that she had actually vomited that morning. She couldn't remembered the last time that had happened, though it might have been when she'd slept with Gaudet. She could only wish there was enough drink that it would eventually wipe her mind of the event, eventually.

d'Artagnan's lips pressed into a thin line in response, clearly wanting it to be now.

It hadn't been long after he had pulled her from the fire, that the drink, and exhaustion and stress, had caught up with her and she'd passed out. He made camp, covering her with the travel blanket from one of his saddlebags, and leaned up against the tree to take watch. By morning, the chateau had been completely burned through, but the building was resilient and stayed standing. Athos had awoke as well, with the just sun breaking over the horizon, with the most pitiful moan he'd ever heard from her. She'd squinted into the growing light, and stumbled up onto her feet, wavering precariously.

"Whoa!" he'd reached out for her but she smacked his hands away and instead, bent with her hands on her knee, fought the sick. He'd held out the water skin to her, and she rinsed her mouth before drinking deeply. She shoved it back at him and started off towards the burnt house of horrors. "Wh—?"

"I'll be back."

And he had been helpless as she disappeared around the back of the house. His heart was lodged in his throat as he waited for her return, his worry mounting with each passing minute, fearing something unreasonably bad had happened to the woman—though after resent events, it wasn't so irrational at thought.

But naught twenty-minutes later, she returned, astride her steed. "Let's ride."

He looked up at her, open-mouthed for a moment, before he scrambled to pack up his things. The whole ride back, precarious glances were thrown her way the entire time, but she never said a word, and he was almost frightened to open his mouth about the events of the previous night—of all that he had learned about the woman that was his mentor and friend. How to broach the subject that had clearly caused the woman so much pain. But he hadn't been able to, but once the finally reached the city outskirts he had to at least know if she was alright, in the simplest terms of the matter.

"Look." Athos pulled her horse to a halt, the Gascon automatically doing the same as she jerked her chin in indicating direction. He followed her gaze and was surprised to say the least. "Our Spanish friend."

"What are we going to do?" he asked, the mission coming to the fore-front once more.

"Not _we_." Athos replied. " _I_ , will take care of our friend."

d'Artagnan didn't seem to like that any more than her _not now_ comment.

She turned hard blue eyes on him. "It's not a suggestion, go home. Porthos and Aramis should have Bonnaire in His Majesty's presence by now, the mission is through."

There was a tense moment, before d'Artagnan nodded and started to steer his horse away.

Unease suddenly went through her. "d'Artagnan?" she called and he glanced over his shoulder at her. "Don't tell the others what happened, okay?"

Hurt flashed through his brown eyes. "You have my word." _You didn't need to ask,_ his eyes seemed said _, and the fact that you did means you don't know me at all._ And he urged his horse down a side street.

Athos sighed, and clicked her tongue, pressing her steed after the Spanish Agent before she lost sight of him, even in the street upon a horse. The only one who had known anything of her past life, was Treville, and only that she had been the Comtesse de la Fère. He knew nothing of Anne or Thomas. Now that d'Artagnan knew, she didn't know what to feel. Freer that she had gotten some of the built of feelings off her chest after all these years, or more trapped than ever before that someone knew her dirtiest secret.

She was still too hung-over to delve into these issues, and later, she'd would be too sober. Even drunk wasn't the right middle ground. Undiscussed and shoved aside, that had always been her go-to.

She found the Spanish Agent just in time, at a perch on top a building with a crossbow as he prepared to kill Bonnaire. A pistol pressed to the nape of the man's neck solved that fast enough.

"I suggest you put that down so we can talk—unless you find that a musket ball will state all that needs to be said, friend."

* * *

Porthos paced in the tight hall outside of the Cardinal's office impatiently. "'E's been in there an awfully long time." She complained.

Aramis silently agreed from where she sat on the sill of the window. "You know the Cardinal... he's picky with his punishments."

The tall woman grinned. "I 'ope it's somethin' good."

"Why don't we ask?" Aramis smiled. "Here he come's now."

Porthos turned and saw Bonnaire coming down the hall from the Cardinal's office, slowly, looking dazed. "Well?" she asked when he finally reached them. "What is it? Execution? Imprisonment?" If she sounded eager, she couldn't help it. The bastard was finally going to get what he deserved.

"Whipping?" Aramis mused when he still didn't respond. " _Wht-ch_!" she mimed said whip and she and Porthos laughed.

"Not quite, no." Bonnaire finally spoke up, faintly. "No, the Cardinal and I have set up a joint stock company together. He agree to invest... ten thousand livre of his own money, and I'm to set up tobacco plantations across the Antilles." Bonnaire laughed in amazement as Aramis and Porthos were left speechless.

Porthos managed to wrap her head around it and she didn't like where it ended up. She straightened. "These plantations... They'll be worked by slaves?"

He gave an awkward expression and answered hesitantly. "Yes. Yes, of course they will." He paused and shrugged. "I'm actually off to le Havre to charter a ship."

Aramis stood and slowly approached the man. Bonnaire gave a nervous chuckle at her intense stare and tensed when she wrapped an arm around his shoulder and pulled him a couple steps closer to the glaring Porthos. "I thought you were out of the slavery business."

Bonnaire looked between the two crowding woman nervously. "Circumstances, my friends." Aramis slowly took her arm back. "Adapt to circumstance." Porthos seethed at him. He gulped. "It's really all you can... do." And he hurridly squeezed passed the two Musketeers and rushed down the hall, their anger chasing after him like a physical thing.

"This is unbelievable!" Porthos growled, and Aramis reacted just in time to stop the angry woman from striking at the wall and injuring herself further.

"Come on," she murmured gently, still hugging the woman's taut arm. "Let's get back to the garrison."

* * *

When d'Artagnan returned to the Bonacieux residence where he was lodging, his mind was a bit crowded, and figured a wash might be a help to start to clear his head. He hadn't had a bath in nearly five days, and while it hadn't been an uncommon thing, it always made him feel better.

Hair still dripping, he was just buttoned his breaches when he heard the floorboards creak behind him. He turned to find Constance standing in the doorway.

"Constance!" he grinned at her, forgetting his half-undressed state at the sight of her. "Just got back from a mission. How are you?" But she looked conflicted as she looked at him. "What is it? What's wrong?" he took a step towards her.

"There was a woman her while you were away." Constance told him after a moment. "She said her name was Milady de Winter. She seemed to know you... quite well."

d'Artagnan's brows furrowed and he thought on the name. "Milady de Wi—I don't know any Milady de Winter." He confessed. He saw her staring and realized his undressed state. "Sorry!" he hurriedly put on his shirtsleeves.

"Dark hair, green eyes." She paused. "…Very beautiful."

Still, nothing was coming to the Gascon's mind, his head already crowded enough to think much on it. "What did she want?" he wondered, tying his shirt-strings.

"She'd offered my husband work."

d'Artagnan looked at her. "That's good."

Constance nodded, by for whatever reason didn't seem to happy about it. What she said next, caught him completely off guard. Her demeanour turned firm and almost angry. "My husband wouldn't approve of you receiving women alone in the house." He could only nod for his shock and confusion. "In case you intended to..." She trailed off uneasily.

"Constance," he scoffed. "I haven't brought any women here. I'm to busy for that right now." Plus the fact that it would be too awkward with Constance around, not with his growing affection towards her—which he knew completely inappropriate but unable to stop. "I promise."

She seemed relieved by this and let out a shaky breath. "She frightened me, d'Artagnan."

"I won't let anything happen to you." He swore, stepping to her, a warm hand on her shoulder.

She looked up into his deep brown eyes and nodded, because she believed him.

d'Artagnan finally finished dressing and headed back to the garrison. News on Bonnaire's fait should be in by now.

He saw Porthos and Aramis seated solemnly at the usual table by the kitchens and came over. He sat next to Porthos. "So, what happened with Bonnaire? Tar and feathers? Or is it castration?"

"I like 'ow your mind works, lad," Porthos said. "But the Cardinal 'as other ideas." She drank deeply from her wine cup.

"Oh." He was completely disappointed. "So it's something boring like the Chatelet."

"Not even that." Aramis shook her head. He looked at her in confusion and she explained. "It seems like the Cardnial rather liked Bonnaire's plans of a tobacco plantation worked by slaves and made a deal to fund him."

"What?!" d'Artagnan shouted, incredulous. "Richelieu is going to _fund_ him? I know there's nothing that can really be done about the slavery, but what about the fact that he broke the trade treaty between France and Spain. It was the whole reason that we arrested him in the first place!"

"Drink up," Porthos told him, pouring him a glass of wine. "It might help a tick."

He took a deep gulp and sighed. "Bonnaire has more lives than a cat."

"If only those Spanish spies 'ad taken 'is last one, eh?" Porthos mused dryly. "Or I had."

Aramis chuckled. "What did they want with him, anyway?"

Athos came down the stairs from giving Treville her report, just in time to hear Aramis' question. "The Spanish Kings wrote to Louis demanding he put a stop to Bonnaire's actives " Like d'Artagnan, she had changed from her usual black leather doublet, to a blue-quilted, sleeveless tunic that brought out her blue eyes. She sat at the end of the table with d'Artagnan and Aramis on either side of her. "The spies were sent to make sure he didn't escape en route and to shoot him if he did."

d'Artagnan watched her careful, but Athos just gave him a passing glance. He didn't blame her for the way she reacted the next morning after he had found her. She had been drunk, light-headed from the smoke, in shock from the reappearance of her dead lover who would have slit her throat if he hadn't shown up when he did. So it was no wonder in that state that she had confessed what he knew she thought was her deepest and darkest secret. He understood why she had to clarify.

"Oh, we should 'ave let 'em!" Porthos bemoaned.

Athos raised a brow at that and Aramis explained, "Bonnaire's in business with the Cardinal."

Athos was just a shocked about the news as the rest of them were. "He won't be punished?"

d'Artagnan shook his head. "Rewarded."

Athos sighed. For all they'd gone through, her having to return to her past, Porthos getting injured, Maria getting killed—they should have just left Bonnaire alone like Porthos had suggested.

"Well," Aramis held up her glass in announcement, "Here's to us dying together on some forgotten battlefield, while Bonnaire ends his days, old and fat and rich." She dumped the remaining contents onto the ground in loathing.

"Thanks for that cheery thought," he muttered sarcastically and she gave him a mild smile.

"Now, that man will go on to destroy thousands of lives." Porthos said, her voice rough with emotion. "An' there's not a damn thing we can do to stop 'im."

They all sat in silent misery and anger, but Athos' was a different kind of quiet—it was a thoughtful one. "What do you say we shoot some fish in a barrel?" she said, the idea slowly coming to her.

"I am a bit hungry, I could go for some fish." d'Artagnan agreed.

"Nah. I can't eat, not much of an appetite after this mess." Porthos shook her head.

Athos gave them a hard glare. "That's not what I meant."

The pair gave him twin grins.

"Of course we know that's not what you meant." d'Artagnan rolled his eyes.

"Yeah. You'd never be tha' fun." Porthos nodded.

Athos expression turned icy and Aramis chuckled until it was sent in her direction.

"I'm still hungry, though." d'Artagnan mumbled.

"Eat later." Athos snapped, rising.

* * *

The three Musketeers and d'Artagnan found themselves back in Le Havre, in the same tavern where this whole mess started, hidden from sight as Bonnaire made a show of his disgustingly good fortune.

"Tonight, my friends, the drinks are on me," Bonnaire declared, holding up a cup, "The drink are on me, for tomorrow, I set sail to a new and disgustingly prosperous life. _Santé!"_ several patrons cheered and drank.

"We had a deal, Bonnaire!" A dry voice toned with anger cut through the ramble.

Bonnaire stammered, all cheer dropping as he found the source the voice. "Paul, is that you?" Paul Meunier gave him a deadpan expression. Bonnaire tightened himself up, remembering the fact that he had the Cardinal at his back now. "Yes, and I have a new business partner, Paul. You lay one finger on me, and you'll have the Cardinal to answer to." He gave the other man a cocky grin.

Meunier sneered across at him and made a gesture. The smile fell from Bonnaire's lips as around the tavern, several men stood and faced him menacingly, weapons in hand.

Bonnaire instantly wanted to placate. "Uh... Well, I'm sure that we can settle this like men of honour, and we should." He said horridly.

Athos jumped from the crowd before anyone else could move, her sword drawn. "Attack Bonnaire and you attack the King." d'Artagnan, Aramis, and Porthos soon joined him.

But Porthos wasn't feeling much of the love and turned to Athos, angry. "Why are we doin' this? 'E's scum! 'E's a slaver!"

"He's under out protection." d'Artagnan reminded the angry woman.

"Protection be damned!" She snarled.

Aramis turned on Porthos, annoyed at the woman. "We have our orders. We obey them."

Porthos bumped chests with her friend, her eyes hard. She threatened, "I'll kill you to, if you get in my way."

"Ladies!" Athos hissed. "Now is not the time."

They ignored her.

Aramis pressed forward. "Oh, Yeah?" They glared at each other, foreheads whacking.

Unexpectedly, Porthos shoved Aramis, sending her to the ground.

"Shit." Athos cursed, her attention split.

"Come on!" Aramis spat from the ground.

"Bonnaire," Athos spoke quickly aside to the man, "There's a ship waiting in the harbour. d'Artagnan will show you. Hurry and you might live!"

Bonnaire ran through the door before any could react and after a moment's hesitation, d'Artagnan followed. Out on the street, he quickly led the man away from the brawl and to the docks.

"The captain will see you on board." d'Artagnan gestured him up the ramp to a docked ship.

Bonnaire climbed the plank and boards. "Do drop in any time you're near the Caribbean. I'm sure to be home."

d'Artagnan headed back to the tavern, a smirk on his lips as he muttered, "Where you're heading, Bonnaire, is a place I certainly wouldn't visit of my own volition—if only to see you rot, _my friend_."

The Captain of the ship said, "Welcome, _Monsieur_ Bonnaire. So good of you to join us." And gave a most evil chuckled. "We've been hoping to board you for sometime now."

"Wait..." he called weakly after d'Artagnan, but the young man was already gone. He turned back to the Spanish Agent. "Can't we talk on this?"

"No." He said simply, and his men swooped in on the coward.

* * *

d'Artagnan returned to a peaceful tavern, in the same state as it had been when he left. He took a seat at the table between Porthos and Aramis, a drink already waiting for him.

"Sorry for th' shove." Porthos grinned at Aramis with no hard feelings.

"A little spontaneity never hurt anyone," Aramis replied, rolling her shoulders.

Porthos chuckled. "But admit it. I frightened you."

Aramis held up a trembling hand for the pair to see, and said in a faux quavering voice, "I-I-I w-was quaking in my b-b-b-boots!"

Porthos gave a hardy laugh. "I knew it!"

"The key to Bonnaire's warehouse. Everything in it is rightfully yours." Athos sat with Meunier at a table pushed together with theirs, and slid a set of keys across the tabletop. "If I were you, I'd move it before the Cardinal takes an inventory." She suggested helpfully and the man stole away said keys. Meunier smiled and shook the clever woman's hands. "No one must know of this. Technically, we're both guilty of treason."

"My lips are sealed." Meunier smiled and left. She was right when she had told him not to doubt her.

"You're the boss around here," d'Artagnan pointed out. "We're just minions, so in all fairness, you should take the blame."

Athos looked aside at him. "Keep that up and it'll stay that way, smartass." She faced them fully. "So far as the Cardinal is concerned, the Spanish kidnapped Bonnaire."

"And spirited him away." Aramis grinned, making a soft gesture through the air.

"Embarrassin'." Porthos agreed solemnly, nodding. She sat back and grinned after a short pause. "But there's not much 'e can do about it."

Aramis raised her glass. "God speed, Bonnaire. May your time in the Spanish prison be long and uneventful."

"Let 'im adapt to those circumstances." Porthos cheered darkly.

"Hear, hear."

They drained their glasses. Mission well done.

Soon after, they left the tavern and Porthos turned to Athos. "Thank you." She said sincerely.

Athos went to pat the woman's shoulder, but Porthos quickly pushed it away. "Oi! Watch my wound."

"Mind _my_ needle work. " Aramis corrected and Athos held out her hand placating. "Though you didn't seem very hindered when pushing me." She pointed out when the pair departed.

Porthos grinned and gave a small shrug. "Special circumstances."

"I'll bet." Aramis gave her shoulder a feinting pat. "Just wait until I take that thread out.

"If only all wrongs were so easily corrected." Athos murmured to d'Artagnan before taking her own leave.

d'Artagnan sighed and watched his mentor leave. He wasn't going to bother a second attempt to question Athos further on what happened that night in Pinon. But if the woman was ever ready, he would be there.

Suddenly, the hair on the back of his neck stood on end, and he whipped around to look behind him. But all he saw through the faint torchlight was the blurring fog. Sighing at his nerves, putting them off to being pursued these last couple of days, and started back for his lodgings. Hopefully, it wouldn't be too late when he returned, because Bonacieux always locked the doors early and he could have to find an inn to stay the night in if that happened.

If the young Gascon had turned a bit earlier, or perhaps a bit faster, he would have noticed Milady watching him and Athos, both from the obscurity of the fog.

* * *

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

 _As you can see, I kept the relationship between Athos and Anne/Milady, much the same as it was in the show, except for a few minor details, like the fact of them being married. I don't know what/whether Porthos' mother named him something else, but I believe I read somewhere that mentioned Isaac, so I changed it to Izzie, because Porthos is a woman in this fic. Whether this fact is true or not though, I supposed it doesn't really matter because I don't plan on mentioning it another time. :[]_

 **Note: I recently discovered that the estate Athos was previously the Comte to, was not called** _la Fère_ **, but** _Pinon_ **, so I corrected that in chapter. Sorry for the mistake.**

* * *

 _ **Reference:**_

In Matthew 5:38-41 , Jesus made three radical statements. First, He said that a person should turn the other cheek when someone strikes him...

"Nothing, how little so ever it be, if it is suffered for God's sake, can pass without merit in the sight of God." - Thomas a Kempis

 _ **Translations: (Spanish to English)**_

 _La resurrección de las muertos y eterna vida = The resurrection of the dead and eternal life_

 _Quien es usted?= Who are you?_

 _¿por qué estás aquí? = Why are you here?_

 _ **(French to English)**_

 _Santé = Health_

 _y_


	4. Pursuit 4: The Good Soldier

**a/n: Thanks to everyone who has left awesome and encouraging reviews, I'm glad you guys like it so far. Here's another chapter for your pleasure! :)**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own the Musketeers, just gonna borrow them and their adventures for a bit.**

 **Episode Tag:** _Season 1, Episode 4: The Good Soldier._

* * *

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

 **Charl(i)es' Angels!**  
 **Pursuit 4:** _The Good Soldier_ —

When d'Artagnan had been asked to join the Inseparables on parade, for the King to welcome the Duke of Savoy—he'd been excited, but now he was starting to wish that he declined.

He groaned quietly. The sun was high and unobscured in the sky, and it beat down on the four of them without reprieve. "It's not all adventure and intrigue, d'Artagnan." Athos told him, standing on his right. "It's better you find that out now."

"Heat. Flies. Boredom. I do so love parades!" Porthos muttered sarcastically. "I'm thinkin' about faintin', just for somethin' to do." Porthos muttered. The others chuckled, but there wasn't the usual charisma that accompanied Aramis' laugh, because she hadn't laughed at all.

"And I'm almost willing to let you." Athos replied, wryly.

"Catch me, if I do?" She wondered.

"No."

"Mmm." The tall woman thought on it. "I'll risk it."

d'Artagnan saw the corner of Athos' mouth twitch, but she said nothing further and he tried to hide his own mirth. It wouldn't do to burst out laughing like that at an official and his first, hopefully of many, Royal parade.

"The King's not happy." Athos noted.

"The Duke's late," d'Artagnan said, that was why they were left standing there. The four of them stood shoulder to shoulder; d'Artagnan, Athos on his right, Porthos on her right, and Aramis at the other end. They were placed in a short hedges path, and on their right, further down, was the King and the Queen, seated under the shade of a small tent, with the Cardinal on the King's right and to the front, and Captain Treville, the same on the Queen's left. Red Guard and other Musketeers were scattered strategically around, and several royal attendants were in company as well.

"Nah. 'E's just bein' an ass 'cos 'e knows the King has to wait." Porthos said.

At d'Artagnan's questioning look, Athos explained. "Savoy's placement. Strategically important against the Spanish influence on France's boarder. That's why we need this treaty signed, and that's why the Duke can take it upon himself to make the King wait."

d'Artagnan gave a low whistle as he looked at the others. "No wonder Louis' pissed."

Aramis hadn't said a word since they'd arrived, had hardly said anything since morning muster at the garrison.

"Is Aramis alright?" he whispered quietly to Athos.

Athos glanced briefly across Porthos, to Aramis, who stood on the other end of their line, looking tense and a bit distracted, and line of sweat on her upper lip. Athos shot a questioning glance at Porthos.

Porthos gave her a look and whispered quietly so Aramis might not hear, "Have you forgotten about the massacre at Savoy?"

"What massacre?" d'Artagnan gasped.

He had overheard a piece of conversation between the Treville and Aramis before they'd left and wondered if maybe that had to do with this:

 _"Aramis, if you're not up for this, that's fine. With d'Artagnan going, there's more than enough men."_

 _"Trying to replace me, are you?" But her smiled was tight around the edges. "I'll be alright, sir."_

"I'm right here!" Aramis hissed at them. She wiped the sweat front her lip with the back of her hand, refusing to look at them. Apparently not as out of it as the other had suspected.

Before there was any chance of an argument breaking out, the Duke's arrival was finally announced, their carriage pulling one of the several fountains. Out stepped the Duke of Savoy, his wife, the King's sister, the Duchess, and the man's First Minister.

The greetings were frosty and board line rude, but for the King and his sister.

And that was when d'Artagnan saw it out of the corner of his eye, as the King and the Duke shook hands, and turned his head to the line of hedges and trees on the other side, a scattered breeze like a cool exhale that ruffled the leaves. He tensed, his brown eyes narrowing on the spot as he took a intense step forward. And then he saw it, the flare of a flint from a harquebus, and before he could open his mouth in warning, the shot was fired.

An attendant next to the Duke let out a scream that was cut off as he hit the ground dead. And a thing of chaos commenced.

"Protect the King!" Treville screamed.

"Get into formation, now!" Porthos shouted to the other Musketeers.

The King's guard rushed around the King, Queen, and Cardinal, the King's sister and a pissed off Duke, quickly ushering them from the exhibition and back to the Palace.

"Here!" d'Artagnan had shouted, instantly taking of around the drive, the Duke's carriage, and confused Red Guards, Aramis and Athos running after him, Porthos going the long way around.

d'Artagnan jumped over the bush where the shooter had hidden, the gunpowder smoke washing away as he leapt through it and came through with a summersault, instantly popping into his feet. Aramis leapt over, almost like a pouncing cat and scrambled to her feet. Athos was like a graceful gazelle. They came into the garden and were forced to part ways. Aramis went left towards the Palace wall, d'Artagnan straight down the middle, and Athos in the opposite direction.

Aramis came through the hedge and found herself at the Louvre wall. She stopped at a rope that was hanging over the roof and gave it an experimental tug in his gloved hand, shattered clay shingles on the ground at her feet.

Had the shooter already managed to escape? She cursed her inattention. She stepped under the outside walkway through one of a dozens of arches that designed in. Her first thoughts were that he had, but the prickling on her skin she felt, didn't. She slowly looked one way and then turned to the other.

She didn't hear him until it was too late and he was already behind her, a dagger at her throat, her back pressed to his chest. She tensed, her hand on his arm.

"Hello, old love." He whispered in her ear.

"M... Marsac?" she gasped in realization at the voice she hadn't heard in five-year—at the touch.

Marsac loosened his hold slightly as her voice stabbed into his heart, and she flared with sudden anger, striking out at the man. She struck him on the face over her shoulder with the back of her free hand, and gripped his armed wrist at her throat with the other. She twisted from his hold, gripping his wrist still, and kicked him gut before tugging his arm and throwing him to the ground.

Marsac groaned and coughed, rolling onto his back. Aramis, having claimed his dagger, pointed it at him.

"First a deserter and now an assassin?" She scoffed in distaste.

"You don't understand." He told her quickly, a spilt across the bridge of his nose. "It was the Duke of Savoy that led the attack and killed our friends five-years ago."

She tossed the dagger to the gravel outside the walk in disgust and turned her back on the man. Anger griped her, and the ache in her heart was like opened anew. She pulled her pistol and spun back around at him, cocking the weapon as she pointed it down at him. "Put your weapon on the ground."

He eyed the weapon. "We were friends, Aramis. We were in l—"

"Now."

Marsac pulled his sword from its sheath at his hip and set in on the ground, she quickly kicked it away, out of his reach.

"Aramis—please listen to me."

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Porthos running through the fountain path adjacent to the walk and out of some sense of something, she quickly grabbed a fistful of Marsac's poncho, pulled him up, and pressed them to the pillar hiding them from view until the tall woman jogged passed, not noticing them. She clipped her pistol back onto her belt.

Aramis found them closer, found herself looking into his blue eyes. She stepped back before she could do something even more stupid than before.

"Thank you," he whispered and touched her cheek.

Anger blazed in her usual liquid brown eyes once more, and she drove her fist into his gut. His breath whooshed from his lungs and he doubled over with a wheeze. She took a step back and drove an elbow between his exposed shoulder blades, driving him to the ground. "And that's for leaving me with 20 dead Musketeers!" She gasped for breath, fighting the tears that wanted to overwhelm her—angry tears.

Marsac cautiously climbed to his feet, when he got a reasonable amount of breath back into his lungs, he spoke. "Have you never asked yourself what really happened that night? All those years, we thought it was the Spanish that butchered our friends..." Aramis paced in front of him, took her hateoff and rain her fingers through her short locks, remembering a hand that wasn't her own that used to do the same thing when they were longer; only half paying attention until he finished with: "It was the Duke."

She pushed him against the pillar. "How do you know?" she demanded. "The raiding party was all masked."

"I've made it my life's work to find out the truth."

She narrowed her eyes and gave him another shove before she backed away. She found it hard to think, too overwhelmed by the past. Bus just as suddenly she was back at him again, her hand fisted in his poncho.

"You left me!" she sobbed.

"I couldn't stay," he whispered in a broken voice, "I couldn't—"

"Aramis?" d'Artagnan came skidding to a halt, her back to him.

She inhaled sharply, schooling her features before she looked at him over her shoulder, though clearly her eyes were overly shinny.

Confused, he said, "Is that him? I'll get the others." He turned.

"d'Artagnan, wait." He turned back to her. "Don't tell the other's, not yet."

"What?" he laughed, incredulous. "Of course get the others. He tried to assassinate the King!"

"Not the King!" Marsac corrected.

"Shut up!" Aramis gave him a shove.

"What the hell's going on, Aramis?" d'Artagnan demanded, raising his pistol and pointing it at Marsac, his question punctuated by the clicking of the cock. He narrowed his eyes at his friend. She been acting uneven ever since Treville announced their assignment at morning muster, and talk of this massacre at Savoy. Something was clearly amiss.

"Please." She released Marsac and walked towards him.

He felt extremely uncomfortable pointing it at her and lowered the gun. "Aramis, this is insane!" he hissed at her, shooting furtive glances at the shooter.

"Trust me, Charlie." She said. "He's an old friend."

"An old friend?" he scoffed. "An old friend that just tried to kill the Duke of Savoy."

"Hear him out. Marsac was one of the best soldiers in the Regiment."

"He a Musketeer?" he was sceptical as he looked across at the man, who stared back at him with blazing eyes.

"He was." Her expression twisted as she turned back to him.

"For the sake of our friendship, for what we once were—let me prove what I know!" Marsac pleaded to her.

She went back to d'Artagnan. "I need you to keep quiet about this for now."

"Have you gone mad?" he hissed.

"Possibly, but... I owe him my life."

d'Artagnan searched her eyes and she stared back at him steadily, a firm expression on her beautiful features. He sighed and groaned, flicking his bangs out of his eyes; he was going to deeply regret this, he knew he was, but he agreed anyways. "If this gets me hanged," he warned her, "I'm going to take it very personally."

Aramis gave him a weak smile and relieved breath, patting his chest. But it was short-lived as Athos came running to them. They tensed.

"Anything?" she questioned, looking between the two, Marsac just edged out of sight.

"No." Aramis said. "It's where he came through, but it looks like he's long gone by now."

Athos sighed. "Alright. You two keep looking, just in case he decided he has a pair, and wants a second go at the Duke. I'll head back and report to Treville." She left, cursing to herself under her breath.

d'Artagnan turned narrowed eyes on the woman. "I'm not if I should be worried, or impressed, at how well you just lied to Athos."

"We need to hide him somewhere," she said instead, and was giving him a pointed look.

He returned the look for a long moment and dread visibly filled him as he realized what she was thinking. "No." He said. "No!" He was going to regret this even further, and he wondered, not for the first time, or the last time, exactly what kind of shit storm he was allowing himself to get dragged into.

* * *

Aramis quickly tugged the flap of her cloak over hers and Marsac's bound hands, to hide the fact that he was a prisoner and not an innocent guest. She glanced at d'Artagan, who had a tight expression on his face out of sight of Constance, clearly not happy with this situation at all.

"So, _Monsieur_ Marsac, I assume you're a soldier?" Constance queried politely.

"Not at all." Aramis answered for him. "He a cabinet-maker."

"Cabinet-Maker?" Marsac muttered.

"High skilled." She agreed, giving him a look.

"Of course, that's exactly what I am, uh," Marsac drawled, trying to find something that he knew about cabinet-makers, which wasn't much. "An artist in oak, uh, walnut... chestnut... ?"

"Chestnut?" Aramis muttered this time.

"I don't know, all types of wood." Marsac shrugged helplessly, but Constance didn't seemed to notice.

"How long will you be staying?" Constance wondered.

"Oh, just a few days." d'Artagnan said pointedly.

"Can't he answer for himself?" she raised a brow at the Gascon.

"He's just very shy and doesn't go out much, if ever." Aramis said through her teeth. "Do you?" she elbowed him. Marsac grimaced but said nothing.

"Well, if you're willing to vouch for him, he can stay in d'Artagnan's room." Constance told them.

"Great," d'Artagnan muttered. He was lying to Constance, hiding a fugitive, lying to Athos and Porthos and Treville, and now he was out of a bed for the night. Just fantastic.

"If you'll excuse me?" Constance squeezed passed Marsac and Aramis in the doorway, her arms full of material.

"I'm in your debt, _Madame_!" Marsac called after her with a lingering eyes.

d'Artagnan glared at him. "She's married... and a friend."

"I was admiring from a distance," he said innocently, and the Gascon didn't miss the flash that went through Aramis' gaze when he said it.

"Make it as far away as possible, so far, in fact, it doesn't exist at all." He growled, pushing passed the man and after Constance.

"Come on," Aramis tugged the man's bound wrist with her own and guided them to where d'Artagnan had indicated his room.

Aramid pushed him onto the edge of the single bed, in the small room, and sat next to him briefly while she untied their bound wrists, before kneeling in front of him to bind his own hand together this time.

The whole time, she could feel his eyes watching her, but she pointedly kept to the task. Since his reappearance, she had been alternating between hot and hotter, physical anger and emotional anger that wanted to sway between crying, screaming and hitting.

"Where would I go if I escaped?" He murmured.

"I don't know." She admitted just as softly. "That's why I'm not letting you loose." She tied off the rope and gripped his bound hands tightly in her own, in—she didn't know what. She looked up at him. "I've thought of you many times, Mar. Wondered... wondered what you were doing, what you were thinking, if you'd moved on, or had found somebody."

He chuckled without humour and his blue eyes were filled with sorrow and pain, and a loneliness that made her heart ache for him, for herself. And she suddenly just wanted his arms around her again, but she stifled the impulsive urge—that was what got her here in the first place.

"Moved on?" he scoffed. "Found somebody?" he shook his head. "It's been precarious. A musket for hire, with thieves for company and one eye on the door. I'm weary of it, Aramis. I can't take it any longer—that's why I came back, to finish this."

"You're name is held in contempt amongst your old comrades." She told him bluntly. "You're a coward and a deserted. For that alone, you're under the sentence of death."

"No one has the right to judge me!" he shouted. " _You_ alone know what really happened..."

Silence descended between the pair, and with a heavy heart, she covered his with his poncho and stood. She slung her soft blue Musketeer's cloak over one shoulder and turned to the door.

"Treachery can't go unpunished, Aramis." He called after her departing back. "The lives of our dead friends much be avenged!"

* * *

"So? How's it going?" d'Artagnan asked gently, wondering after Constance with a guilty conscious.

She gave him a critical eye. "What? What have you done?"

"What do you automatically assume I've done something?" he asked, specifically not answering the question, because soon it would be _what hadn't he done_?

"Because you do." She returned back to her work.

He sighed and smiled despite himself. "You know me so well, Constance."

"Hmm. We'll see," she smirked and he grinned back.

"Ahem." Aramis cleared her throat from the doorway. "Am I interrupting something? I can come back later."

"No, we're fine. "Constance rolled her eyes and turned back to her task.

"We should head back to the garrison and give our report." She told d'Artagnan, who nodded and said his farewell to Constance.

d'Artagnan was only able to hold his tongue on the matter for as long as it took him and Aramis to walk the 10 yards from the Bonaciuex's doorstep, to their mount harnessed in the small, open stable in the courtyard.

"What happened in Savoy?"

Aramis stilled.

He could understand if Aramis didn't want to talk about. He'd lost his father months ago now, but every time he talked or thought about what it was like to have Alexandre die in his arms, it tore the hole in his heart afresh. A lump of emotion would always form in his throat and choke him and tears would prick his eyes.

Perhaps, when he was older, there would be a time when he thought about his father, and though he would be sad at his sudden passing, he would remember the good times that they shared, the connection that they had, and not linger of the devastating memory of his father dying in his arms in the pouring rain.

He knew it was not the same to what Aramis was sure to have been through. Massacre. Just the word made d'Artagnan shudder. She would never force him to speak about Alexandre's death scene, and he felt guilt rise up inside as he had done just that.

"If you—"

"No." Aramis whispered, interrupting him, knowing what he was going to say. "No. I forced you into this situation, the least I can do is tell you why." She slung her cloak across her horse's saddle and they slowly walked to the square's well. She took a deep breath. "We were camping near the French boarder. It was a training exercise. We had no reason to be on our guard." Pain flashed through her eyes and she took off her hat, picking at it in her hands as she spoke. "We were attacked in the night, most of our men killed as they slept. Marsac and I knew we were going to die, but we fought side by side, regardless, like soldiers."

"How did you survive?" he gasped. They finally arrived at the well and he sat on the edge, dipping his hands in the full bucket next to him, watching his sister dredge up the past, that he was sure she would rather leave there.

"I was wounded." Her thumbnail drew across the thin, nearly invisible scar on her forehead, her draw not straying, like she'd done it unconsciously thousands of times over the years. "Marsac dragged my to safety in the woods. He didn't go back to fight. He hid in the trees, watching the massacre. When I woke up the next morning, I... found him sitting amongst the bodies, overcome with shame and remorse. He felt he should have died, too." She gave a broken sigh and leaned against the well next to him. She dipped her hand in the bucket and rubbed the back of her neck. She choked as she continued. "He ripped odd his uniform and rode away. I should have stopped and told him that he hadn't done anything wrong, that throwing his own life away would achieve nothing.

"We were more than friends, you know?" She scoffed lightly and shook her head. "Just the day before, we had talked about our life after the Musketeers—about our life together..." she squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. "He just saved my life, and I let him ruin his own. But in his own eyes, he is a coward and a deserter. Not in mine," she whispered. "Never in mine." She pressed her hat back on her head pulling the brim low over her eyes, needing some semblance of privacy to collect herself.

The second that massacre happened, she lost whatever life they might of had. That day broke the man that she had loved, turned him into a shell, changed him beyond repair. In the back of her heart, there was always that hope, that dream—but she knew she was just being a fool. It was only a matter of when she would actually admit it to herself, and stop committing to a lie.

* * *

The closer they rode to the garrison, the more that d'Artagnan filled with dread and unease. Until finally, the four of them followed Treville to his office and it was too late to do anything else.

"How in God's name did he escape?" Treville demanded, frustrated at the prospect of the assassin still free to attempt another go.

"We lost him on the grounds." Athos said.

"He just, uh... got away." Aramis shrugged helplessly.

 _Yeah, just with a little help from us,_ d'Artagnan thought.

"Did you see him either?" Treville stood behind his desk, looking at him.

d'Artagnan was caught unawares by the pointed question his way, and floundered. "I, um... slipped." As soon as it left his mouth, he wanted to throw himself forward and smash his head against the Captain's desk. _Why_? he wondered. _Oh, why?_

Treville scoffed and straightened. "You slipped." The others were giving him similar expressions.

"Wet grass... (?)" he whispered. Aramis really wanted to join in the head banging, if she could, please.

"There's a killer on the loose," his voice was hard as he started to come back around his desk, "And security of the nation hangs by a thread," he stopped in front of d'Artagnan, so close that young Gascon fought the urge to step back."But at least little d'Artagnan didn't get a nastly bruise!" he spat.

Embarrassment stained his olive cheeks, and he had to bit his tongue from speaking. Any respect and confidence he had worked to achieve, was just smashed to bits in seconds. He really wanted to kill Aramis in this moment, not caring that it took two to get into a bad situation.

"Athos. Porthos. Report to the Palace in the morning." Treville ignored him now, and went back behind his desk. "As long as the Duke is in France, his safety is now your despicability. And be vigilant. The assassin is still out there somewhere." He looked at d'Artagnan, "Perhaps avoid the grass." He dismissed them.

d'Artagnan and Aramis shared a look that Athos didn't miss as they left, and her already suspicious inklings from earlier mounted.

"You slipped?" Aramis hissed at d'Artagnan as the pair hurried from the others, down the stairs. "That was all you could come up with?"

d'Artagnan glared at her. "What about you? Cabinet-Maker? Really? 'He just, uh, got away'?"

"That was better than wet grass! Nobody slips on wet grass!"

"How would you know? The only grass in Paris is at Louvre!" d'Artagnan jerked his arm in the general direction on the Palace.

"Hey." Athos called to the hurrying pair, stopping them at the garrison gate before they could escape her attention. "You're hiding something."

Porthos crossed her arms and nodded in agreement.

"No idea what you mean." Aramis said pointedly, sliding a warning glance at d'Artagnan.

Athos narrowed her eyes at the answer, and then turned her gaze onto the unhappy Gascon. "You, too." His lips were pursed. "What is it?"

"That grass was dry as sand, mate." Porthos added, with narrowed eyes.

Aramis shot him an I-told-you look and the young man narrowed his eyes.

"If you don't tell them," d'Artagnan growled at Aramis, sick of this, enough was enough already! "I will." This wasn't like him holding onto Athos' secret past. What the two of them were doing, hiding a wanted fugitive, the attempted assassination of a high-ranking nobleman—they could be hung themselves, branded traitors to King and Country.

"Tell us what?" Porthos glowered at the tight-lipped Spaniard.

She suddenly groaned and hung her hand, running a hand along her face, suddenly looking haggard. "Here's the thing..."

* * *

"You brought a wanted man into my house?" Constance clearly wasn't happy. "A deserter?"

"Deserter _and_ assassin." Athos pointed out helpfully from the end of the table in the Bonaciuex kitchen where the six of them had convened after Athos and Porthos had stopped Aramis and d'Artagnan at the gate and pulled their confessions. Neither woman had been happy at the big secret that was kept from them, especially Athos. And d'Artagnan was sure this was some sort of sick revenge on her part, siccing Constance on them.

"I'm guessin' they didn't mention that part." Porthos noted the expression on the red-haired woman's face, standing in front of the unlit fireplace.

"Failed assassin, technically." Marsac piped up unhelpfully from where he sat at the table as well, near the opposite end of the table from Athos, Aramis standing at his left shoulder, and Constance at the end of the table.

"Oh, you keep quiet. I don't want to know." Constance shook her head. She turned to d'Artagnan, angry. "But I trusted you."

"d'Artagnan's not to blame." Aramis spoke. "He behaved with honour."

"Honour?! Honourable people don't lie to their friends." Constance clearly wanted to slap Aramis, but luckily for the woman herself, with Marsac seated between the standing pair, she was out of reach—but d'Artagnan wasn't. "You lied to me." The force behind it made his eyes water. "You looked me in the face and said you weren't up to anything!"

"Constance —" he whispered. He'd caused that, the hurt and the betrayal that shone on her eyes. "I'm sorry. We'll find somewhere to else to put him—"

"No." She told him.

"What?" he looked at her.

"He can stay." She said. "But you can pack your things immediately." And she brushed passed him from the room, her shoulders and expression tight.

d'Artagnan looked after her helplessly. "That hardly seems fair." He whispered. The door slamming the next moment made him flinch.

"She'll forgive you," Aramis offered after a moment of awkward silence. "Just give her time."

He looked at the woman earnestly. "How much time?"

"Ah, a decade or two... maybe." Porthos wasn't as funny as she thought she was and he glowered at her.

"That's... mean, Porthos." He sulked.

"Have you both completely lost your minds?!" Athos demanded, her hand slamming on the table. She looked between Aramis and d'Artagnan like it was true. She'd held herself in check long enough while _Madame_ Bonacieux was present, but now—now she felt like her head was going to explode with anger and frustration. "The two of you are completely unbelievable!"

"Perhaps Athos doesn't care about 20 dead musketeers." Marsac muttered loudly.

And there he was, the cause of all of d'Artagnan's problems. He glared at the man.

"Insulting a woman that holds your life in her hands?" Athos clearly wasn't impressed, and her entire demeanour plainly said so as she rolled her eyes at him in cold disdain. "I see you are a fool as well as a coward."

Marsac jumped to his feet at the insult, blazing in anger. Athos jumped to her own feet, readily confronting the man. She didn't much like him, even back before the massacre. And afterward, everything she had suspected of the man was proven correct. But Aramis never had such clarity, not during or after—and certainly not now. She held a blind spot for the man. Athos had the same problem with Anne, but there had been that single event that shot everything into clarity, put a spotlight on the obscure little things that really painted the picture. Eventually, her friend would see, and unfortunately, it would break something inside of her. But maybe, unlike Athos, she wouldn't be broken.

Before either could tear the other's throat out, Aramis jumped in-between them, and separated them. "Just hear him out." She beseeched the other woman. "If you're not satisfied, I'll do whatever you suggest."

There was a bloated pause as Athos turned her disgusted glare from the man she looked down on, to one of her few friends in life. She saw the earnest and pleading look in the brown eyes, and Athos gave a solid nod in agreement to the terms.

"There's somebody you should speak to first, then." Marsac told them.

* * *

Marsac led the four warily from the Bonacieux residence, through the crowded streets of Paris, and to a derelict cellar that was empty but for a few barrels shoved in one corner, and a man a bit roughed up and trussed by his wrists to the ceiling, left to dangle on his toes, and rag shoved in his mouth as a gag, looking as if he'd been there for days.

"Found him in a bar, drunk and bragging about killing Musketeers." Marsac went to the man and pummelled him harshly in the gut. The man groaned around the rag. He pulled the rag out. "Tell them what you told me!" he screamed in the man's face, before punching him.

"Easy!" d'Artagnan shouted. "He can't talk if he's out cold."

The man glared at the group, but spoke without more prompting. "I was a soldier in the pay of the Duke of Savoy. At Easter, five-years ago, he told us the French had come to kill him and put his son in his place."

"Go on." Aramis urged, stepping forward. Her heart was jolted to the base of her throat.

He inhaled. "We rolled out on Good Friday. Slaughtered the Musketeers as they slept." He continued cruelly, "They were snoozing like babies when we crept into their tents."

Aramis felt bile rise in her throat and wanted to be sick. She took her hat off, turned slightly away, running a rough hand through her hair, trying to get herself under control. If only they had been sleeping, instead of gutted and sprawled in the snow, their tents shredded and soaked with blood. She'd remembered. They only reason why her and Marsac hadn't been slaughtered in the first 10 minutes was because they'd snuck off to fool around.

"They were my friends!" Marsac shrieked, striking him with a roundhouse that made the man's head lull.

"No! No, wait!" The man shouted quickly as Marsac went to punch him again. "I'll tell you who gave the Duke his information."

Athos quickly grabbed the blond man and shoved him away before turning back to the man, blood dribbling from his broken nose.

"Speak." She ordered.

He spoke quickly, breathless. "I overheard him and his Chancellor—uh, uh, Cluzet, discussing his name. We knew where you were camped. We were tipped off!"

Aramis turned back to him, and said around the lump in her throat, "What name did you hear?" But he didn't answer. "Who betrayed the Musketeers? Who?!" She grabbed the man's throat, choking him, but no one tried to pull her off like they had Marsac. "Tell me!"

The man gurgled. "Yarville. No! It was C-Captain—Captain Treville!"

"Treville..." Athos muttered in disbelief.

"Well, that makes sense. Every man had his price." Marsac spat.

"You take that back!" Porthos roared and went for him.

"Porthos!" Athos stepped in front of the tall woman, blocking her path. Porthos seized and fought herself about shoving the woman aside and throttling Marsac anyways. She could think of nothing more satisfying in life at the moment. "Ladies, d'Artagnan." He murmured and jerked her head.

And slowly, the four went to another corner in the cellar, away from the man and Marsac.

"The Captain? Really? The Captain?" he repeated, shaking his head. "A traitor who organized the murder of his own men? It's impossible."

"Well, 'e's lyin'." Porthos declared simply.

"How did the Duke find us so easily?" Aramis persisted. "Someone had to tell him. Someone who knew our orders... It was Treville who issued them." She said reluctantly and the three of them looked at her in disbelief.

"How do we even know what this guy is saying is the truth?" he protested. "I mean, look at the condition he's in—"

Aramis narrowed her eyes. "What are you saying, d'Artagnan?"

"I'm saying…" he took a deep breath and he looked back at her solemnly, his arms crossed over his chest. He didn't want to say this, not because he cared for Marsac, but because he cared for Aramis. "Marsac has been clearly going at the guy. He looks, and smells, like he's been here for days. I think he's just confessed to the things that Marsac has been screaming, and hammering to him about. I can't blame the guy, with Marsac as his captor."

Aramis was really getting angry now. "Are we going to have a problem?"

"That's enough." Athos intervened and the two glared at each other. "We _don't_ know if this man is telling the truth—you know that as much as any of us, Aramis."

"Hey, Marsac." The man hissed so the others wouldn't hear. He mocked the already unhinged man. "You're friends made a pretty picture with their throats cut, eh? Laying in the snow, half naked!" He laughed.

Marsac saw red as he approached the man... and then he really saw red.

"He's obviously heard Treville's name somehow." d'Artagnan reasoned, oblivious like the other three, to what was happening just on the other side of column where the man was hung.

"He'd say anything to save his own skin." Porthos nodded in agreement, her arms crossed over her chest. Porthos remembered a man just like this. She rolled her right shoulder unconsciously in remembrance. Bonnaire was now rotting, miserable, and deserving in a Spanish prison right now. He'd been on the cutting block, too.

"I agree." Athos said, ever the calm voice in the unreasonable. "There must be some explanation."

They looked at Aramis (who reluctantly knew they were right), waiting for her response. In the pending silence, there heard the clear gasping, choking pants of a dying man. The three women were very familiar with the sound of the dying, and soon enough, d'Artagnan would be as well.

They rushed to the opposite corner of the cellar.

"Marsac! Marsac!" Athos quickly wrenched Marsac away from the convulsing man and d'Artagnan quickly checked him.

"He's dead." He said, even though an inspection was unneeded. His gaping throat was clear and grotesque, his whole front soaked with blood as he hung limply from his bound hands tied to the ceiling.

"Not laughing now, are you, you son of a bitch!" Marsac spat. "What a pretty picture you make."

"You idiot!" Aramis screamed at him and Porthos punched him, finally, with her unusual strength. He fell back into the barrels in the corner, nearly senseless. "We needed him, he was a witness."

"Enough!" Athos' voice sliced through the tension and anger like a wicked blade. "Porthos, d'Artagnan—cut him down." The tall woman and young man went to work. "You really are an idiot." Athos looked down at Marsac, who sat up on the ground. "Do you even care about 20 dead Musketeers?" she said his own words back at him coldly.

* * *

They had no choice but to leave the man's body in the cellar. They didn't know his name, they knew nothing about him, but that he claimed to be a part of the party that slaughtered those Musketeers five-years ago. They only had dead man's word, and Marsac's word—which meant nothing to the older woman. Marsac had killed the man before anything could be done, but a shotgun confession and it made d'Artagnan's suggestion all the more reasonable. Who knew how long that Marsac had held that man prisoner. Porthos had been right when she said that he would say anything.

It was clear to Athos, to anyone, that Marsac was a loose canon. He couldn't be trusted and he was unpredictably unhinged. He was hardly a man any more. The man didn't think, he just acted. He was a beast in all but shape.

She had let this madness go on for long enough.

"Treville is a patriot, a man of honour." d'Artagnan said. "The charges against him are ridiculous!"

"We have accusations, not proof." Athos corrected.

"Then we'll find proof." Marsac insisted.

Porthos looked at him in disgust. "There's no ' _we_ ' here."

"Aramis, you were there." Marsac pulled the woman to a stop, and the others came to a halt as well. "You saw their butchered bodies—"

Aramis spun on him. "You don't need to remind me." She paused. "Athos is right. There is no proof. With the man dead and no identity, we have no way of knowing."

Marsac scoffed. "Don't you want revenge?"

"I want justice." She said tightly.

Porthos looked at Aramis. "This is the Captain we're talkin' about."

She sighed. "Which is why we owe it to him to clear his name."

d'Artagnan crossed his arms over his chest, and said from where he stood behind Porthos. "So, really, we be doing him a favour?" the disgust towards Aramis' reasoning was clear. "Let's hope he sees it that way."

"This is none of your business." Marsac dismissed him with the flick of a finger. "You're not even a Musketeer."

That cut d'Artagnan deeper than he was willing to admit, least of all in front of this man. He sneered back at him and said, cuttingly, "Apparently, neither are you."

Marsac charged at him, and he tensed, but luckily for the blond man, Porthos was in his way, otherwise, d'Artagnan would of had an outlet to unburden his feelings on.

"Don't go there," she growled lowly, threateningly, and shoved him away, "Not if you want to keep breathin', mate. I'll have your heart inna minute."

Marsac didn't look half-done yet, even at the clear threat, and Aramis put a firm hand on his shoulder, holding him in place. "I _have_ to know the truth." She told Athos.

Athos sighed as she looked at her friend. "I don't believe Treville is guilty, and I never will..." she paused and decided how to continue. "But I won't stand in your way. Do what you have to do." Aramis looked tremendously relieved to have Athos' acceptance. She would have gone ahead and done it anyways, but it was a weight off her shoulder to have the older woman's credence. "One condition, though," and the sharpshooter waited, Athos' blue gaze cutting to the blond man, "Marsac stays under house arrest."

Aramis glanced at him and nodded, and Porthos grabbed the man roughly, leading him away.

Aramis called after the group, "During the massacre, I wounded their leader—a cut across the back. If it _is_ the Duke who led the attack, he'll still carry the scar." She'd done it as he turned to flee, it was how she got the scar on her forehead.

"Aramis." Athos urged the others forward, but turned back to woman. "Before you take this road, ask yourself one question... If it's true—what then?" Blue eyes met brown and Athos squeezed her shoulder before she went after the others.

Aramis gazed after her for a long moment, her expression hard with her resolve. She wanted answers—needed them—but she didn't know where she should start.

She found herself without company, not alone in the garrison yard, but isolated nonetheless. She hadn't allowed herself alone to her thoughts since Treville made the announcement of the Duke's visit. She was afraid of what kind of state of mind it might leave her in, and she needed to function, to think clearly.

Though she'd standing next to the others at the parade, she had to fight hard not to let the memory engulf her, drown her in snow and blood. Despite the heat of the hot, beating sun shinning down on her, she'd felt chilled, and haunted.

But now, lost, with nothing to distract her, it was like she was thrown back to that horrible dawn.

 _The snow danced down from the grey sky, light flurries like little feathers that landed on her chilled skin and in her dark, tangled tresses_ — _melting. She could hear men shouting, the screams_ — _but it was like she was underwater; their cries distorted and muffled. Soon she would realize that it was just memories, of echoes of past screams of dead and slaughtered men, but not just yet. Their bodies thrown around the woods, like some sick ritual._

 _She'd remembered the flash of steel, the sudden flare of pain on her forehead, and then she was falling, blinded by blood spilling hot into her eyes, before she struck her head on the ground. She's slashed the leader's back and this was retaliation._

 _She'd moaned, the noise sounding muffled in her ears and she opened her eyes to see Marsac above her, tightening a scarf around her head roughly._

 _"Come on!" Come on!_

 _And she remembered his arm around her chest, dragging her away, blood bleeding into her eyes, distorting her sight, blinding her_ — _but not blinding her enough because she saw it_ — _saw their bodies fall as easily as an overturned stool._

 _His despair was violent as she was to move herself, to verbalize. She blinked in and out of time, and the next she opened her eyes, he was missing and she stumbled from their hiding place, disoriented, searching for the man she loved. For the man that had saved her life._

 _The camp was in disarray. The bodies of Musketeers were scattered around the frozen ground like dead flies. The blood was so bright, red against the white snow. Splashing, painting any surface it could reach. She tripped stumbling over an outstretched arm, and reached out to catch herself, only to fall onto her knees._

 _Gasping, she'd found him, standing in the middle of the massacre, turning, the bloody bodies blending into one._

 _She'd been helpless. Able to do nothing as he tore off his pauldron and let it drop to the ground. His lips moved as he said something to her, but she couldn't hear, the screams stuck in her ears. And then he turned his back on her, and disappeared, leaving her with twenty butchered Musketeers._

 _"Marsac! Marsac..."_

 _But it was too late. He was gone._

 _She crawled to his discarded pauldron, the engraved Fluer-de-lis, lined with blood. It was like she'd been drugged._

 _She curled up onto her side, hugging the leather to her chest, her tears coming to freeze upon her pale and cold cheeks, and was happy when she knew no more of the world and its horror, forever etched into her body, her heart... her soul. It became a part of her, just like the scar on her forehead did._

"You want some dinner?"

Aramis was jolted out of remembrance as Serge set down a bowl of rolls in front of her.

She gave herself an internal shake, and the old man an apologetic smile. "No, thanks." She hadn't been hungry since that morning, didn't have the appetite with all that had happened since then. The churning in her stomach was more than enough to fill it.

He just shrugged and with a sigh, started to limp back to the kitchens, but she found herself calling to him. "Serge?" he turned back to her inquiringly and she stole herself. "You remember Marsac?"

"Oh, I remember him." He nodded. "Good soldier until... well, you know." He paused and looked at her, keener than before. "It's the visit from the Duke of Savoy, isn't it? Stirs up bad memories." He gave her a sympathetic smile before going back to the kitchens.

She sighed heavily and turned back.

She caught sight of Treville out of the corner of her eye, and looked up to find the very man of subject in her troubles, leaning against the railing of the balcony, looking upon his yard. He saw her, and gave a nod, she returned the gesture automatically as a plan started to from inside her head.

* * *

Athos and Porthos went to the tavern for food a drink before going to rest for the night for their morning duty at the Palace tomorrow, as d'Artagnan returned to the Bonacieux residence, with Marsac in tow. And reluctantly, a Constance's previous behest, started to pack his meager belongings after he'd settled the man in. He didn't have much in the way of possessions, not even back home on the farm in Lupiac. His family hadn't been rich, and they only had what they needed, but for some few items that were considered a 'splurge' of their coin. He hadn't been back but to bury his father next to his mother in the village graveyard. His most prized possessions were the ones he always carried with him, his father's sword, his _main guache,_ and just recently, Vadim's coin.

"What are you doing?"

"Packing my things." d'Artagnan told her, sighing. "Just like you told me." He turned to her, the tied bag in his hand.

She looked at him in disbelief, and then her expression hardened and she grabbed the back from his hand, leaving his startled. "After everything we've been through, and you still don't trust me."

"What are you talking about?" he scoffed. "I trust you!"

"Then why do you keep insisting on lying?"

"I was trying to protect you." He protested.

"Do I look like I need protection?" he opened his mouth to respond. "Shut up! I don't. I don't want it. What I want, is to be treated as an equal."

He looked at her. "I made a promise to Aramis." He reached for his bag but she pulled it from his reach.

Something flashed in her grey-blue eyes. "So you chose her, over me?" her voice was quiet.

"Constance," he murmured and reached out, brushing his thumb across her cheek for a brief moment. "It's not that simple." He leaned forward and her eyes didn't leave his. He took his bag back. "There's a question of loyalty."

He stepped back and she blinked out of her daze, giving her head a little shake. She gave him a serious look and he sighed.

"I know, okay? But it's different. Athos, Aramis and Porthos; they're different from you."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" she crossed her arms over her chest indignantly, looking a bit cross.

"They're them and you're you, Constance. It's not an insult. They're my friends, my sisters" — _My Angels_ — "and you're... you're _Constance_."

The way he said her name, it made her heart flutter in such a way that made her want to put her hand over her heart, but she refused the action. "If you put it like that... then I suppose you can stay."

"Great." He grinned. "That was my plan all along, flatter you until I got my way!" But there was something fast that flashed quickly through his passionate brown eyes before it was shut away just as fast, that indicated otherwise. "You won't regret it. I won't make the same mistake next time."

She gave a small, wry smile. "Next time?"

He looked sheepish. "Is that what I said? I meant never." He gave her a tentative grin.

She gave a small chuckle and shook her head despite herself. "I don't think such a word could ever apply to you, d'Artagnan. But the next time there is a next time, you'll be out on your ear. Hear?" d'Artagnan nodded rapidly. "And... perhaps I would miss you."

He gave her a pleased smile in return and she left smiling to herself.

Feeling the best he had all day, since the start of calamity of a day, he dumped the meagre contents from his bag onto the bed, feeling satisfied and home.

* * *

Athos and Porthos reported to the Palace with Treville, like the Captain had ordered the previous day, standing to the side as the King and Cardinal received the Duke and his First Minister.

"A bodyguard of Musketeers?" the Duke groused. "It's like being protected by... she-wolves." He sent a scathing glance towards the two women, who gave no outward reaction. "Have you captured the man who tried to kill me yet? Or have you been sitting on you hands?"

"We shouldn't allow ourselves to be distracted by minor issues." The Cardinal said soothingly, waving away his concern. Little did the men know, that the Inseparables already had the man in custody.

"My life might be a minor issue to you, Cardinal," he spat, "but not to me."

"You came to Paris to sign the treaty! Further delays are in no one's interest."

The Duke scoffed and slowly approached the two Musketeers. "I will fight a duel..." he said, and eyed the two woman, his grey eyes narrowed as they landed on Athos, "With this Musketeer." Athos and Porthos shared a quick glance as the Duke turned back to the Cardinal. "If she wins, then we discuss the treaty. I triumph... then I return home without delay."

"Sorry, I assume you're joking?" the Cardinal argued.

The Duke just grinned at the man before turning to his First Minister, and removed his doublet and retrieved his weapons. Athos glanced at Treville, who gave his assent and she turned to Porthos, who took her pistols, blue uniform cloak, and her black leather doublet as well.

The Cardinal quickly turned to Treville and hissed, "Will your woman win?"

"Athos is the best swordswoman in the regiment." Treville told him.

"That's not what I asked—And hardly helpful, seeing as there's only three of them!"

"Perhaps I should have said better than any man? Would that had satisfied you?" Treville scoffed at the other man in response and the dignitary went to stand next to the King, not a happy man.

"Is this a good idea, Cardinal?" King Louis murmured to him.

"That rather depends on the outcome, sire." He muttered.

Athos moved to the center of the room, slashing her sword lightly through the air in front of her, warming up her muscles a bit for the task ahead. She'd drunk last night, of course she had, it was just supposed to be a simple parade. The King would welcome the Duke, they would sign the treaty and then go their separate way—but then the past had to come back and bit them in the asses and pulled them into this entire mess. Luckily, she'd hadn't drunk herself into a stupor, and didn't need Porthos to carry her back to her apartment. Who would have guess she would have to do a duel?

The Duke faced her. "He who draws blood first is the winner." He said. "And don't think because you're a woman, I'll go easy on you. I'll cut you down just like any man in my way..."

Athos' blood was simmering under the surface. She'd remembered that fear that had choked her, when she'd heard news of the massacre. Like the earth was opening up before her feet again and all she could see was Thomas, sprawled on the floor, bloody; Anne, as the rope pulled taut around her throat;— and then Aramis in the snow.

But by some God, she was alive. She had survived. If not broken. But she and Porthos, they were their to pick up the pieces, to put her back together from the devastation of the massacre and Marsac's desertion.

Aramis was her sister. It was more than just a word, it was more than just a title. It was because of Aramis, and because of Porthos, that she was even here today, that dragged her out of her fragmented life. They were the reason she was here today, why she was able to function to the standard that she did. And it was because of d'Artagnan's twice interference that Athos was still here, to stand present for this duel.

But Marsac had come back and stuck all their foots in it. The Duke was here, and the distaste in her grew—the anger.

She saluted with her sword and held the steel out in front of her. He touched his tip with hers, and they slowly circled.

He pushed forward in a thrust of his sword, and Athos shoved it away, backing up a step. He made to strike and she threw in a quick thrust that he turned aside to avoid and swung back. She blocked it, and in their close proximity, he elbowed her in the face.

It blinded her for a moment, and she could feel him tense against her for another strike. She put of her sword just in time to block it and stumbled away from, straightening as she wiped the corner of her mouth. He chuckled as she looked back at him with cold eyes.

They met in the middle with a flurry of strikes that were blocked. She threw an overhead stroke at him, but he blocked it and returned the favour double-handed. She was forced to block it double-handed, and felt the shocks from the strength go down her arms. Their blades locked and he shoved her, throwing her at the King's feet. Laughing quietly as she leapt to her feet just as suddenly and rounded on him.

Their blades clashed and their hilts locked and it was a battle of strength for a moment, before Athos jumped away and the Duke pulled out his _main gauche_. The Duke struck in tandem with his sword and dagger, but Athos expertly blocked them. He did a roundhouse strike and she struck back before she managed to grab his left hand holding the _main gauche,_ causing him to drop it. The Duke thrust at her with his sword, but still griping his wrist, she pulled it behind his back and he swung his sword behind him. And just as he had done her, she came round his front with a hard left hook, causing him to stumble, she used the opportunity to knock his sword out of hand and punched him a second time, revelling in the feeling of her gloved knuckles making contact. He fell at the King's feet, much as had happened to her. And as he turned on his back, she slowly approached, her sword arm held straight in front of her—and pressed the point to his breast.

The Duke had called her wolf, and all she wanted to do was sink her teeth into his throat and rip it out.

"Athos!" Treville warned, but Athos continued to stare down at the Duke, his grey eyes widened. Anger blazed in her blue eyes and she wanted to take his head. "Athos!"

And suddenly, coolly, she cut him at his collarbone. He winced, blood soaking the cut material as she stepped away and walked towards Porthos, panting lightly.

"Shall we say, 9 o'clock in the morning?" the Cardinal grinned at the Duke, who glared, climbing to his feet and left with his First Minister back to his rooms, breathing heavily, not a happy player.

Porthos chuckled and clapped the other woman's shoulder, her hand moving to the crook of her neck, squeezing kindly and lead her a bit aways. "I'm glad it was you. I would 'ave cut 'is bloody head off!" the tall woman said, Athos glanced at her. The other woman had no idea how much self-control it had taken her to not do just that.

Her wry eye-roll was interrupted as Treville grabbed her arm and jerked her around. "You're duty was to win, not start a war." He seethed. "You could have defeated him in a way that allowed him his dignity."

"If I hadn't, he would have gotten up and continued the fight."

But he was unrelenting. "Go and apologize."

Athos sighed, and donning her black leather doublet once more, went off to see the Duke with Porthos following.

* * *

Back at the garrison, Aramis subtly looked around her making sure none of the other Musketeers around were paying her any mind, before she headed up the stairs and to the balcony. The records room was left unlocked, and she quietly shut the door behind her. She instantly went to the records cabinet, but the doors were locked.

She cursed quietly and quickly went to his desk, checking the drawers for the key, but found none. Cursing a bit more intensely, she shut the drawer roughly and heard the distant jingle of a key, froze. Brows drawn, she gave the desk a shake and heard it again. She felt all around the sides, under the drawers, before feeling under the desk. She grinned as she felt the key hidden away under there on a nail.

Retrieving it, she went back to the cabinet and unlocked it, searching each tagged cubby-hole for the documents she was in want of.

* * *

"I have news." Said the First Minister, and Athos took the opportunity to walk into the guest rooms of the Duke's without invitation. Her hat was in-hand but her blue cloak was missing.

The Duke raised a brow at her. "What is it?"

"I have come to apologize... I was overzealous."

The Duke gave her a small nod. "You won a fair fight, I can't hold it against you—even if you are a woman." He turned his back to her and pulled his soiled shirt over his head, tossing it at his First Minister, before grabbing a clean one and slipping it on—and giving her an unobstructed view to the long scar across his back. She got her expression under control by the time he turned back to her. "You wanted to kill me." He remarked. "I saw it in your eyes. Why?"

"You are mistaken." She looked at him plainly. "What motive could a Musketeers possible have for wanting to kill the Duke of Savoy? It's unconscionable."

He gave her a sharp look, but said nothing as she gave a shallow bow and left, pressing her hat over her loose hair. She met Porthos, who had been waiting outside the door.

"Did you hear all that?" she inquired softly.

Porthos nodded, her lips a hard line. "Saw the scar, too. Marsac was right about the Duke." She said it like she'd tasted something bad, and Athos had to agree.

"That doesn't mean he's right about Treville." She sighed. "Perhaps we should find out what _Monsieur_ Gotrand really knows." She suggested and Porthos got the message loud and clear.

"Mmm."

* * *

Porthos discarded her pretty blue ceremonial cloak, for a more, down to earth, plan and worn cloak and large-brimmed hat as she followed the Duke's First Minister as he left Louvre to get more information on this 'news' that the Duke was so interested in.

She trailed the oblivious man to a rundown tavern, where he met a man, and paid him coin. After the transaction was finished, Gotrand left, but Porthos didn't bother following him again, and instead, kept watch over the man he'd done business with. The man stayed for another round, and then Porthos found herself out in the rain, following him through the streets. And 'lo and behold, his destination was the Chatelet.

* * *

While Porthos followed Gotrand, Athos found herself back at the Bonacieux residence with d'Artagnan, Aramis, and Marsac, in _Monsieur_ Bonacieux's sewing room.

"The Captain keeps record of every Musketeer campaign since the regiment was founded—all except for that one night." Aramis shook her head. "There's no documentation for the mission on Savoy, no maps, no letters... nothing at all. Coincidence?"

"Maybe you just didn't find it." d'Artagnan suggested.

"His filing is meticulous." Aramis argued. "There's nothing there. The documents have either been removed or destroyed."

But d'Artagnan still refused to believe it. "I'm still confident there's a perfectly good explanation."

"I will be happy to hear it." But he wasn't forthcoming with one.

"I admit it's troubling," Athos finally spoke up, "But I agree with d'Artagnan."

Aramis growled in frustration. "So, you're content to do nothing?" She turned to the woman, her voice raised. "How much evidence do you need that something is badly wrong? What does it take to make you act?!"

"I will never believe the captain is a traitor." Athos replied evenly. It wouldn't do to get into a shouting match, even if she wanted to be yelling, too.

The woman scoffed. "You think I want to?"

Athos' raised brow was a statement in itself. Marsac seemed to be rubbing off on the woman, and not in a clear-headed, unemotional way. The further they delved into this, the farther Aramis was going downhill.

"Let me help." Marsac stood and drew their attention, for once, he'd been quiet during the proceedings, his hands bound by rope in front of him. "I give you my word as a gentleman that I won't try to leave." d'Artagnan shook his head clearly at the plea. "Aramis, tell them. You know me."

Aramis was silent for a long moment as she looked at the man that she had loved, and slowly shook her head. "I thought I did."

"Every word I have told you has turned out to be the truth!" he protested. "Why would I deceive you now?"

Aramis looked at Athos, because it had been true. It was the Duke that Aramis had injured five-years ago in the massacre. The woman groaned and pulled her _main guache_ and cut Marsac free.

d'Artagnan muttered something incomprehensible under his breath and Athos knew what he was thinking—she knew what she herself was thinking as well... this wasn't going to end well.

* * *

When Treville finally returned to Louvre after that hazardous duel between Athos and the Duke, it was to find his three Inseparables and their new cohort waiting for him on the balcony outside his office.

"What is this?"

"We have questions to ask you." Athos replied.

"Why aren't you with the Duke?" Treville repeated, his gut turning.

"Five-years ago," Aramis stepped forward, "You ordered a troop of Musketeers into Savoy, on a training exercise. They were killed, all except myself and Marsac."

Trevilles lips twisted. "Don't say that man's name to me." They all looked at him. "I remember."

Treville knew. Yesterday, he knew, even before the parade, that something was going wrong. It was a feeling in his gut. Or maybe it had just been as much a reminder of what happened five-years ago for him, as it was for Aramis. Though for completely different reasons. He could wish that he had put a different set of Musketeers on parade duty, but he knew that wouldn't have changed a thing. The assassin would still have tried to kill the Duke. But what had brought on all this odd behaviour from his women? Five-years, and nothing of this sort had happened before. His eyes cut to d'Artagnan. The young Gascon was the only changed variable this time around. But, so was the Duke. Curse that man!

"At the time," Porthos spoke this time, from where she was leaning against the railing, "the attack was blamed on a Spanish raiding party."

"What do you mean, _at the time_?" But he knew the truth, a truth that none of them could ever know. One that held the axe of guilt and shame and regret chopping at his heart. The thing that made himself sick and unable to face himself, that had him cursing the King—the Goddamned Cardinal and his endless tricks and deceptions. And Treville's hands were just as red in this case.

"We have information that it was actually the Duke of Savoy who was responsible." d'Artagnan said.

Silence followed at he looked at each of them with narrowed, blue eyes.

Aramis stepped up to him. "You don't seem surprised." She accused.

"What you spew at me is nonsense." His stare turned hard. "And the only thing that surprises me is your dereliction of duty. Get back to your posts, before I lose my temper!" The order given, he walked past them and into his office. He was stupid to think that was that. The Inseparables weren't his best without reason.

"Did you know it was the Duke?" Aramis persisted.

"I am not accountable to you." Treville replied sharply. He came behind his desk and when he looked up, he found the entire group there.

"Are you not accountable for the men who died?" she spat.

"Be careful, Aramis." He warned her. "You're in dangerous territory."

"Not as dangerous as Savoy was for you're men." Porthos joined in the pointed accusation.

"I'm going to put this down to a fit of temporary insanity." He leaned across his desk dangerously. "Leave now and we'll say no more about it."

"How did our orders get into the Duke's hands? Who told him where we were camping? Why did he think we were going to attack him?" the Spaniard was persistent.

"Get out!" Treville roared.

"Who killed those Musketeers?! And why!?" Aramis shouted back just as loud, leaning back across the desk.

The silence that followed was loaded and filled with both of their heavy breathing.

"Who have you been speaking to?" he whispered.

"It's doesn't matter," she returned just as quiet. "What matters is the truth."

Pain flashed through Trevilles blue-grey eyes, before it was gone. He straightened. "Leave now, and I'll spare you a court-martial—and that's giving you a choice you don't deserve. If I hear of this again, there will be no talk."

Aramis looked ready to jump down his throat, but Athos stepped to her and stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. She looked at Treville. "One last time... will you answer our question?"

"No." He said. "I will not."

Athos looked at him with those cold, piercing eyes, but he didn't baulk. She could be hard and cold, but so could he. He'd been doing this for far longer than her. He'd seen things, done things, for his King and his Country. Things that would break a lesser man.

Finally, they left and he sank into his chair with a shaky breath. They were right. It was the Duke of Savoy that had killed his men, twenty good men and he'd let it happen. He'd had a long life in the military, and he had many things that he'd regret doing and not going through with. This was something that he had done and it was something that he would forever regret, no matter the cause he had done it for.

* * *

Athos leaned on a beam at the railing on the balcony and gazed melancholy out at the yard and the oblivious Musketeers going about their daily duties. And Porthos struck out at the wood in frustration as d'Artagnan leaned tightly against the wall.

While his heart was in the right place, he didn't have the experience of being here five-years ago and on that horrible day, and the months that followed with the emotional upheaval that had affected the Inseparables, and Aramis most personally.

"Marsac is right. How much more proof do we need?" Aramis insisted.

"Treville didn't admit to anything." d'Artagnan pointed out.

"He didn't need to. It was written on his face!"

"The Captain is th' finest man I've ever met," Porthos said. "And any man would react like that if you accused 'im of betrayin' his own men, and givin' away information that got 'em murdered." She paused and didn't seem apologetic as she said, "And when it comes down to it, I'd be on 'is side, than Marsac's."

"You may be content to do nothing." Aramis said with a cutting gesture. "I'm not." And before they could try and stop her, she was already stomping down the stairs.

"Is she going to be alright?" d'Artagnan asked.

"If it was anyone else, Aramis would say 'it's personal, they can take care of themselves'." Porthos said with a shake of her head.

Whether intentional or not, d'Artagnan and Athos' gazes met and they were both thrown back to that night. Aramis had kept telling him that Athos could deal with her past herself just fine, but if he had listened to that logic, Athos would be dead right now, gone from the world. What had he learned today? Aramis could be just as wrong as the next woman, no matter how smart she was.

d'Artagnan sighed. "I'll head back, and check in with Constance, see if Marsac is behaving himself." And he left as well.

"And what 'bout us?" Porthos asked Athos.

"Didn't you hear the Captain?" Athos headed down the stairs. "Back to our posts."

* * *

Constance trusted the others' word enough, that Marsac wouldn't cause a problem, that she was treating him more like a guest than a prisoner. So when he bid her drink with him when she was serving lunch, and she refused, the last thing she expected was to be grabbed.

"It's been such a long time since I've had such attractive company."

"Don't touch me!" She tried to pull from his grasp, but it was like a vice.

"If I were d'Artagnan, you would be a lot more receptive, wouldn't you?" he whispered and she slapped him. He shoved her back against the table. "Just picture I'm him."

"No! Get off me!" She struggled against him, her heart rammed so hard into her throat she couldn't even scream.

"Oi!" d'Artagnan arrived just in time and quickly pulled Marsac off Constance, punching him in the face and throwing him to the floor.

Marsac grunted at the impact, but glared up at the Gascon, swiping at the corner of his mouth.

"Are you alright?" he instantly turned to the assaulted woman. She leaned heavily against the table, pale, breathing heavily, and unable to get her voice to work at the moment, merely nodded. "Are you sure?" he insisted, gently touching her arm, his brown eyes instantly turning soft when in her direction.

"Just a friend, eh?" Marsac scoffed. "First _Madame_ , then Aramis... who do you think you are, her boyfriend?"

Anger turned his blood hot. "No." d'Artagnan grabbed two fistfuls of his shirt and pulled him up, slamming him back against the hard brick of the fireplace's mantelpiece. He noted with satisfaction, the flinch of pain. "That privilege went to you, an undeserving bastard—and you just fucking abandoned her in death's valley. A real hero, you are. A coward and a deserter—you don't deserve how Aramis feels about you—you're unworthy!"

"Better a deserter than a nobody." The man mocked. "Hanging 'round like a lost puppy, begging for attention and acceptance. It's sickening." Marsac pushed against him, but d'Artagnan pushed back harder.

He wanted so bad to beat this scum into the ground. But he didn't—for Aramis. She would never forgive him. Instead, he whispered harshly, "You should be ashamed of yourself. You never deserved the title Musketeer. You're just a lowlife rat. You don't have the honour. What's sickening, is looking at you and knowing that you were allowed in the King's guard." He glared at the man. "Touch Constance again and I'll kill you. Hurt Aramis again and I'll make you suffer."

"I-I apologize," Marsac said, suddenly cowed. "I used to be a man of honour, a Musketeer. Now I... Now I hardly recognize myself. I beg your forgiveness. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

d'Artagnan just looked at him in contempt and pushed him from the room, following behind. He was browbeaten as d'Artagnan tied him up again in the other room, but as soon as the young man was from the room, his face twisted with fury and hate.

"Constance?" When d'Artagnan returned to the kitchen, he found the woman cleaning up the spilled food from the table. "I've tied him up. He won't be trying that again." She made no response as she took the dishes to the sink by the window. "Constance—"

"It was just as well you came when you did," she said, forced humour into her voice, "I might've hurt him otherwise."

"I'm sorry." He told her. "I'm so sorry. I've brought you nothing but trouble since I came here."

Constance took a deep breath and went to the table next to him. "Well, it makes a change, having someone else try and kiss me. Makes things more interesting."

"Please, don't joke." He shook his head.

"I really am fine, d'Artagnan." She said quietly. "It was just a bit of surprise, really. I don't know what I was expecting—"

"He's a deserter and assassin. I should never have brought him here. I wish there was something I could do to make amends."

She paused at that and slowly looked at him, a certain expression on her face as a thought struck her fancy. In truth, she'd been thinking about it for quiet some time, but she didn't know how to ask it of the man, but now was just the opening she needed. "There is one thing. No one in the world could know—especially not my husband."

d'Artagnan leaned forwards towards her slightly, drawn in by her intense gaze and the mystery behind her request, the fact that she didn't want Bonacieux to know. "Of-of course. What it is?"

Constance stepped closer to him, biting her lip, and leaning forward. d'Artagnan swallowed, his gaze flickering down to her perfect lips. Surely not. But he can't have been imaging the electricity between them. She was close enough to kiss—and then she turned her head and whispered in his ear, "Teach me how to shoot."

She pulled back and smirked at his floored expression.

"Sh... shoot?" he repeated when he was finally able to get his bearings.

"Sword-fighting as well." She agreed eagerly. "I've always like the look of that." He looked at her, slightly agape. "Why should men have all the fun?" He couldn't stop the smile at her indignant reaction. "Why do women have to be dignified and ladylike?"

"Good question." He mused. "I have no idea. But why haven't you asked Athos? You knew her before you knew me."

"She's different with you than I've seen her with anyone else." Constance said slowly; he couldn't help the warm feeling that comment brought on. "Beside, I was kind of intimidated... she can be so surly and then aloof. It's very confusing around her, it's hard to know where you stand."

d'Artagnan waved the concern aside. "That's so not true. Sure, she's a private person, and most people think her cold and emotionless—but once you get to know her... not nearly as much!" he grinned at her.

She rolled her eyes good-naturedly at him. "So you'll do it?"

d'Artagnan looked at her in contemplation for a long moment, before he sighed and nodded. As much as he didn't want to admit it, he would feel better if she knew how to take better care of herself, especially after what had just happened with Marsac. The mere thought of it made him angry, but he forced it away and focused on the beautiful woman in front of him. "Fine!"

"Yes!" she cheered, grinning, her entire expression lighting up. She laughed in success and he smiled back at her.

* * *

Aramis had waited and watched out of sight until Treville came from his office and followed him like a sleek shadow. When he arrived at Louvre and met with the Cardinal, she knew she was finally, finally going to get some truths that had been denied her for the last five-years.

Coincidently, and luckily for the sharpshooter, they decided to take a stroll on the very same outside walk that Marsac had repelled into the grounds.

"What do they know?" the Cardinal wasn't happy when Treville admitted that they knew it was the Duke of Savoy who had attacked and that there was an inside man.

"Just that my orders fell into the Duke's hands—that our men were betrayed." Treville said.

"Can't you control your women?" he asked in derision.

"They want to know the truth. It's a matter of honour."

"Honour?" The dignitary scoffed, almost like Constance had when Aramis said the same thing about d'Artagnan. "There's no word in the English language more likely to cause stupidity and inconvenience. You do realize what's at stake?"

"Of course I realize!" the Captain hissed.

"Then handle it." Was the man's sharp reply.

Aramis sword scraped across the stone pillar as she pressed herself against it and froze, silently cursing. She prayed that the man hadn't heard, but was denied that when suddenly, Treville was standing right there, staring back at her. She looked back, wondering what the man's next move was, the ball was in his gun now.

"What is it?" the Cardinal asked.

"Nothing..." Treville said after a moment, turning from Aramis and walking back to the Cardinal.

"I must go. The Duke has demanded an urgent meeting with the King."

"Why?

"I've no idea." He admitted at the door, guarded by two Red Guard. "Hopefully, he'd finally come to his senses."

And he left Treville alone, who waited until the thick wooden door clanked shut before turning back and returning to the pillar that Aramis had been hiding at.

She came into view, her expression hard.

"You think you're entitled to an explanation, but this is not your concern." Treville told her.

"You and the Cardinal, as thick as thieves." She sneered. "Twenty dead Musketeers... that makes it my concern."

"You think I won't have you arrested?" He demanded. "That you're above the normal laws of soldiering? Because you're not. You just as expendable as the rest of us."

"Expendable like those men, you mean? Did you betray your own men to the Duke of Savoy?" She asked through gritted teeth.

"You are meddling in complex affairs of state." Treville hissed angrily.

"It's a simple question, Captain. Did you do it?"

There was silence as Treville looked at her, breathing heavily through his nose. And then he admitted, with guilt and determination, "Yes."

Aramis already angry eyes flashed brighter and she struck him with enough force that he stumbled to the ground. Up on his elbow, she struck him again.

"This isn't over!" she told him. "You've gotten away with it for five-years now, but no more!" And she ran.

Treville watched her leave and slowly climbed to his feet. "If only you knew." She left him with a bloody nose and a split cheek, but it was less than what he deserved. This wasn't just going away.

She thought him a traitor, and it pained him to think that one of his Inseparables doubted his honour and integrity like that. But they didn't know the truth, the real reason. The one that had made him go through with the order. To sign the death warrants on his men. To hand away their lives.

* * *

Aramis went straight from Louvre and to the Bonaciuex residence. When she arrived, she'd sent Constance away. And went to the sewing room where Marsac was tied to the table. She cut him free.

Treville had admitted it.

She wasn't in the coherent state of mind to question why he was bound again—when last she saw him, Athos had cut her free. She couldn't think straight, now that she knew the truth—now that she knew Treville had sold them out to be slaughtered. And for what? For what?!

She told him what she had heard between Treville and the Cardinal and what the man had admitted to her.

"What will you do now?" Marsac questioned, rubbing at his wrists, waiting with anticipation upon her answer. Now, they would be on the same page. Now—

"Report Treville to the authorities." Aramis answered. "He'll face a court martial."

"What?" He scoffed in disbelief towards her. "With the Cardinal involved, it won't make trial! We have to act now, Aramis! We can handle this ourselves."

"I'm a soldier," she shook her head. "Not a vigilante." At least she was clearheaded enough for that. "This has to be handle properly."

"If you want justice, then this is the only way." He insisted.

"Marsac," she whispered, and cupped his face. He couldn't help but sigh into her touch again. "It's not my way. And it didn't used to be yours. They deserve to be punished, but it has to be done the _right_ way."

"You're right." He said after a long moment, and Aramis smiled at him. "You're right. I'm sorry."

Finally, she was getting him to see it through the right lens. Maybe, after all this was done and over with, he could become a Musketeer again, like it was supposed to be.

Her thumb brushed his cheek and she patted his chest as she stepped away. "You're still a deserter. If they catch you, they'll hang you." She glanced out the open door. "Best thing for you to do is to leave Paris as soon as possible."

She looked back and didn't even have time to process, before he punched her. She fell back against the wall by the door and slumped down to the floor, out like a light.

He looked down at her, pained. "I'm sorry, my love." He whispered. "But you said you wanted justice, this is the only way." He dragged the unconscious woman, and hid her behind the door, out of immediate sight. "When Treville is dead, you'll have it." He kissed her forehead and stole her pistol.

* * *

"Shouldn't you two be with the Duke?" d'Artagnan questioned at the gates of the garrison as he ran into Athos and Porthos.

"Our services are no longer required." Athos said, "Now that the Duke is to sign the treaty—and we have the assassin in custody, though no one knows it."

"That's for sure," Porthos sighed and crossed her arms. "We need to talk with th' Captain again."

"I need a drink." Athos muttered instead. "Where are you to?" she asked the Gascon

"I was just on my way to check in on Marsac, make sure he hasn't crossed _another_ line. " d'Artagnan told them.

Porthos smirked at him. "You sure that's all you're doin'? For a woman who's kicked you out of 'er house, you seem to be visitin' quiet a bit."

He glowered. "With no help from the three of you, she's taken me back." The tall woman chuckled. "And I don't trust that deserter one bit, the last time we did—"

"Go." Athos told him with a pat on the back.

* * *

d'Artagnan returned to the Bonacieux residence to check in with Constance again, and make sure that everything was alright. With Aramis who-knew-where, he didn't like leaving the man alone, least of all after what happened the last time they trusted Marsac not to do anything. Even though he'd tied the man up good and tight, he still wasn't one-hundred percent comfortable leaving him along with her without company.

He dismounted in the small courtyard and tied his horse's lead to the rail, next to a second horse, that on closer inspection, appeared to be Aramis'. He glanced up at the dwelling in worry and took the steps of the enclosed stair two at a time.

"Hey—?" d'Artagnan stopped at the top of the stairs, in the kitchen entryway, staring across at Marsac, who was free and unbound. He was agitated and froze at the sight of the Gascon. "Where's Constance?" he narrowed his eyes.

"She went out." He answered.

"I saw Aramis' horse, where's she?"

Marsac shrugged as he slowly approached the young man. "I haven't seen her."

"Where do you think you're going?" d'Artagnan put out a hand to the man's chest, stopping his progress. "How did you get free?"

Marsac's expression twisted and d'Artagnan flinched in pain at the unexpected punch that put him back a step, and he struck out in defence. Marsac had given him a black eye, but he'd finished Aramis' earlier job, and had given the blond a broken nose.

Marsac grunted at the sharp pain, and wiped at the free-flowing blood with his shirtsleeve. "You bastard!"

And d'Artagnan had only time to scramble for a grip at the doorposts before he was falling backwards with a cry as Marsac gave him a shove that sent him tumbling down the stairs. He cracked his head on the wall before he came to a stop at the bottom of the stair, half his body hanging out the enclosed stair, black spots in his vision.

He groaned, fighting the blackout that played tug-of-war with his consciousness as Marsac stomped down that stairs and stepped over him. d'Artagnan made a grab for him, and managed a weak grab of his pant leg.

Marsac jerked his leg free and spun around, kicking the Gascon in the ribs several times with a bruising force that left him both breathless and hurting, before he brought a heavy heel upon his temple, pounding him into the blackness that had already threatened him.

Marsac sneered down at the unconscious young man, wanting to do more, to keep going until he was a bloody pulp, but guilt rode him already from having no other choice than to knock Aramis out cold, so he mounted her horse and rode from the yard, towards the garrison and his target. He was finally going to get his vengeance—for his brothers that were slaughtered, and for what was taken from him all those years ago.

* * *

d'Artagnan managed to climb his way back into conscious, groaning. His head was pounding and splitting, he could feel the ache in his ribs, the sharp pain when he breathed, the twinge in his right wrist, and the tenderness around his left eye.

He pulled himself to his feet with the support of the wall and was forced to cling to it as dizziness and nausea washed over him and he doubled over, unable to stop the sick. It wasn't pretty but he managed to pull himself together, and set up the stairs.

"Aramis?" he called. "Aramis!" he gave a general search of the house, but saw no sign of the woman and didn't receive an answering call. He returned to the kitchen and leaned against the table for a moment; pulling his thoughts together.

He didn't know where Aramis was, and he worried about the woman, wondering if Marsac had done to her what he had to him. He needed to get back to the garrison and tell Athos that Marsac was loose.

"d'Artagnan!" Constance gasped as she returned and saw the Gascon. She quickly set the basket she'd been carrying down, and rushed over to him. "Are you alright? What happened?"

He waved off her concern. "Have you seen Aramis?"

"What? Yeah—Yes. She sent me away when she arrived. What's happened? Who's done this to you?" She lightly grasped him arm.

He straightened. "If you see Aramis, tell her that Marsac's missing and get to the garrison. I have to—"

"What do you mean, missing?" she asked. "d'Artagnan—"

"Just do it, Constance." He interrupted. "Please. I have to tell Athos and Porthos." He pulled himself from her touch and headed for the door. "And I'm fine!" he called back to her and disappeared down the stairs.

He mounted his horse and urged the beast as fast as he might through the crowded streets and to the garrison. He didn't know what Marsac's plan might be, he was beyond reason at this point. He pulled the animal to a halt in the yard and jumped off with a grimace to face a surprised Athos and Porthos... and the Duchess?!

"d'Artagnan? What happened?" Athos demanded, catching sight of his blackened eye, and what was soon developing into the heel print of Marsac's boot on his forehead behind bangs.

"Marsac escaped!"

"Please!" the Duchess interrupted. "There isn't time for explanation... but there's an important prisoner being held somewhere here in Paris—"

"You mean Cluzet?" Athos asked.

She looked surprised. "You know him?"

Athos and Porthos shared a look.

"Not exactly." Porthos said. "But we know where to find 'im."

"The Duke is on his way to find him right now." The Duchess said hurriedly. "For the sake of France, he must _not_ be discovered. Many lives are at stake... including my own."

"We can't stop the Duke entering the prison." Athos shook her head, her arms crossed over her chest.

"Yeah," Porthos agreed slowly, her eyes lighting up with an idea as they landed on the old Musketeer at the table in the yard. "But that doesn't mean 'e has to _find_ 'im inside."

Athos looked over her shoulder and landed on Serge as well, and understood the tall woman's meaning immediately. "Serge! You're coming with us!"

"What for?" the old man asked.

"We'll explain on the way!" Porthos grabbed the man.

Athos turned to the Gascon. "d'Artagnan—"

"I'm fine!" d'Artagnan quickly jumped into his saddle with a grunt. "Let's go."

* * *

It had been a mad gallop to the Chatelet, and an even madder rush once they were inside. The Duke and Cardinal were only minutes behind, not even that.

Porthos had a pistol to the Red Guard, great incentive to cooperate. It was the same man who had met with the Duke's First Minister, so they knew they were on the right track. The Guard unlocked the cell door and the group piled in.

Cluzet was confused at seeing the rest of them, but as soon as his eyes fell on the Duchess, he jumped to his feet. "You traitor!" he spat.

Porthos quickly grabbed the old man.

"I want nothing to do with this!" the Red Guard shouted.

The Duchess knocked the man out with his own pistol, her expression stone.

"Not you're average Duchess, then." Porthos remarked, dragging the struggling Cluzet from the cell. "Serge!"

The old Musketeer shuffled into the cell, and Athos and d'Artagnan dragged the Guard's unconscious body from the cell and around the corner. d'Artagnan quickly put on the man's cloak, and grabbed the man's hat as double insurance, pulling the brim low over his eyes. He'd just managed to lock the cell door, with Serge inside, and slump into the stool outside as the Duke, his First Minister, and the Cardnial came rushing down the tunnel.

"Open the door!" the Duke shouted at him.

"This is a waist of time! It's absolutely pointless." The Cardinal insisted. He was startled as he recognized d'Artagnan, standing in front of him, and quickly changed his tune. Obviously the Musketeers had a plan. "Well, do as he says!" he ordered.

d'Artagnan quickly unlocked the door and opened it. The three men pushed inside and shut the door, and there voices were muffled from there in. The Gascon glanced into the dark recesses of the corner, knowing, but unable to see the three women and one man hidden in the darkness. He jerked back to attention as the Duke threw the door open.

"You impertinent fool!" he snapped at his First Minister, who rushed down the tunnel after the angry man.

The Cardinal was last to leave and paused long enough to give d'Artagnan a nod, before he left. The Gascon waited a moment before he let out a relieved breath from his bruised ribs and turn round the corner to the others and grinned.

"We're clear." He nodded to Athos, who nodded.

"Nice look. Better with th' hat." Porthos grinned at him, her arms still wrapped around the struggling Cluzet, her hand clamped over his mouth to cover his insisted protests. "It's a good look for you."

"I think I'm for the Musketeer uniform, if that's alright with you?" d'Artagnan replied, taking off the hat and running his hand through his hair, winching at the combined twinge in his wrist and sharp pain in his forehead.

"Eh," she shrugged. "Red's not your colour anyhow."

d'Artagnan put right hand to his chest, gaining a twinge out of his sprain wrist that he ignored. "You really know how to make a guy feel warm inside."

She chuckled. "It's a gift."

"If I get lice, I'm coming for you."

"If you get lice, I'll shave your 'ead for you." She offered.

"Do that, and I come for yours." That wiped the grin of her face, but put a devious one on his.

* * *

Aramis came awake confused as she climbed to her feet, but it all came crashing back to her as she realized that her pistol was missing. She cursed. Marsac had knocked her out! She grabbed her hat and ran from the sewing room.

"Aramis!" Constance gasped at the woman's sudden appearance. "Where did you come from?" Aramis halted.

She grimaced. "That's a little difficult to explain, _Madame_. I hate to be rude, but I'm in a rush." She headed for the door.

"Wait!" Aramis made herself pause, despite the urgency. "d'Artagnan was here. Hurt. He's said Marsac was gone and that you needed to get to the garrison."

She cursed. "I have to go!" and she ran down the stairs and headed for the garrison, leaving a utterly confused, frustrated, and worried Constance.

Aramis hoped and prayed that she wasn't to late to stop Marsac from doing something utterly and irrevocably stupid. d'Artagnan must have come just after Marsac had knocked her out, and took him by surprise as well. She hoped that the kid wasn't too injured because of her folly, but didn't expect so, with the state that Constance was in.

* * *

After his encounter with Aramis at Louvre, Treville had returned to the garrison and found himself in the armoury, taking inventory and neatening out the weapons. He was tightening out the row of harquebus' and their partnered forked posts, when he heard the distinct click of a pistol.

He froze, wondering if Aramis had come back to finish him off, but was thinking of the wrong survivor.

"Treason has to be paid for, Captain."

"I always thought you'd be back one day." He remarked.

"Was is money?" Marsac spat. "Were you paid by the Duke?"

Treville turned around to the man, clear disgust on his face. "If you think that, then you know nothing about me. But I know all about you, don't I? You're kind."

Marsac seethed at him, and approached. Treville backed up, through the arched pillars and to the other side of the armoury.

"I'm going to blow you to hell!" Marsac shouted at him. "But first... First I want to know why. I want to know why you sent the Duke to slaughter us. What was it worth to you, to kill twenty of your own men, you bastard?"

"Put it down, Marsac." Aramis said evenly, raising the pistol she had commandeered from a Musketeer in the yard, coming through the same door that he had to catch the Captain unawares. She hadn't seen the others, and wondered what might have taken them, but decided she better focus on this right now, because whatever it was, they were capable.

Marsac jerked at her sudden appearance, but quickly recovered and pulled a second pistol from his belt and pointed that at her. "That's not going to happen, not until he tells me why!"

"Whatever the Captain has done, he will account for it at a court martial." Aramis reasoned. "He will not get away with it."

"There will be no court martial." Treville shook his head. "The King knows what happened. I was acting on his instructions." He'd finally decided, that on his way back, next he saw the Inseparables, he was going to tell them the truth. That was what this whole mess was about, and he was sure that if they knew the reasons, they might change their minds about what they thought was the truth.

"The King told you to betray us?" Aramis looked across at him, confused.

"I was told to pass on your position to the Duke. Those were my orders, and I obeyed them." He reasoned simply. "I'm a soldier, it's what we do. You know that. We're all just cogs in a wheel."

"And what reason can there be for sanctioning the slaughter of you own men?" Marsac demanded.

"It was done to protect the King's most important spy in Savoy... The Duchess." Treville said.

"You sold us out... for the Duchess?" Aramis repeated in surprise.

Treville nodded. "Cluzet was a Spanish spy. He began to suspect she was passing us information. We had to distract the Duke and snatch Cluzet before he exposed her."

"The secret to a good trick is to make people look the wrong way." Aramis whispered in realization. Vadim had told d'Artagnan that, and it was this that had nearly cost them their lives.

"Twenty of our friends were murdered!" Marsac snarled. "What right did you have?"

"I was mislead!" Treville protested. "The Cardinal allowed the Duke to believe that your mission was an assassination attempt. I didn't know, not until it was too late, not until..."

Aramis chest tightened. She'd been wrong. All wrong! Treville wasn't a traitor. He was honourable. "Put the weapons down!" she told Marsac, jerking her own.

"You just heard him!" Marsac looked at her in disbelief. "You heard him! He admitted it. He's guilty!"

"And you heard his reasons," she shook her head, "So... put them down, Marsac. It's over. We know the truth now. We can—"

"This has to end here, Aramis." Marsac whispered, his blue eyes bright with unshed tears. "You know that." He turned to Treville and aimed his pistol. "It's going to end, finally."

"No!" Aramis screamed as Marsac fired. The contents of the table in front of Treville exploded with the impact of the bullet.

Aramis fired her first shot wildly. Marsac ignored the returned fire and levelled his second pistol at the man, he wouldn't miss this second time.

Treville froze as the shot fired, but it was Marsac who stumbled, who had blood spreading on his chest.

"Marsac!" Aramis cried, dropping her spent pistols and ran forward, catching the heavy man in her arms. "I'm sorry." She dropped to her knee with him in her arms, and remembered back to five-years ago.

"Better to die a Musketeer, than live like a dog." He whispered through the blood on his lips, with his dying breath, "Don't let it consume you, Aramis. My lo…" His eyes slipped closed and his head fell against her chest.

Aramis hugged him to her, pressing a kiss to his head as she cried quietly. Even as several Musketeers rushed in at the sounds of the gunfight. She held her friend and lover like she hadn't been for able to for years. And cried at his loss, because even though they hated him, she loved him. Even after he had left her, she still loved him.

* * *

The Duke had signed the treaty, after not finding Cluzet, he had to—and left immediately afterward, and they were all relieved for it. This entire mess started because of that man's arrival, and now that he left, hopefully, the pieces could start to be put back together again.

* * *

d'Artagnan needed a minute distraction, while Aramis attended to Marsac's burial. She had to go through that alone, while they were still at the Chatelet. It was a finished thing by the time they returned to the garrison to report to Treville of the event and the truth that the Duchess had told them. But it was all too late in coming. So he decided that he might as well start on Constance's lessons because he knew that she wasn't about to forget that he had agreed to teach her.

He set up some empty glass bottles in a row out back (despite the pouring rain) and handed her a loaded pistol, and stood back and watched. She rose the weapon, her arm wavering lightly and she squinted and attempted to line it up. When she finally pulled the trigger, the ball ended up somewhere beyond in the bush.

She looked aside at him with what he might come to believe was the cutest expression of consternation, and he smiled at her, handing over his second loaded pistol in his bandaged wrist, and hooking the empty one to his belt.

"When you meant lessons, you really meant it." He joked.

"Quiet, you!"

"Alright, alright! I'll show you how." And he stepped behind her. "Hold it out for me." He requested, and she did as he bid, feeling the warmth of him behind her. "Don't snatch at the trigger—your arm is far too stiff." His breath tickled her ear. "Straighten your arm." He ran his hand along it, and she gulped. "Keep your arm up—elbow loose. Deep breaths." She jumped a little as he patted her stomach through her corset. "Sight down the barrel. Re-lax." He squeezed her strapped shoulders in a encouraging and warm gesture before he took a step back. "And fire."

Constance took a deep breath, and relaxing came easy with him near as she sighted through the pistol—and fired. The glass bottle shattered as she hit her target.

"Oh, d'Artagnan!" she gasped in delight, spinning around and hugging. "Did you see that shot? It was good!"

"It was." He murmured in a low tone, gazing at her.

"Ahem." Her own flickered away and she attempted to shake off the warmth that his brown stare ignited inside her. "Swords?"

A grin broke across his lips and he gave a small chuckle. "Yeah, swords."

* * *

Aramis kissed the cross that the Queen had given her as stood next to the fresh mound of dirt that now covered Marsac, the rain pouring from the heavens upon her and Treville.

They stood in silence, peace between them once more. The massacre at Savoy had haunted each of them for their different reasons. Perhaps now that they had been revealed to each other, they could start to heal a wound that was long overdue.

"Marsac's spirit died in that forest in Savoy, five-years ago—it just took this long for his body to catch up." Aramis murmured. She sighed and looked over at the silent man. She knew that Marsac affected him, just as much as it had her. They both blamed themselves for what had happened to the man, but for obvious different reasons. "We're soldiers, Captain. We follow out orders, no matter where they lead—even to death. It was the lives that we chose for ourselves. It's a commitment we live by. Our positions don't matter, but what lies in our hearts, do."

Treville nodded and he finally looked at her. He held out his hand and she shook it. They shared bitter-sweet smiles before the man turned from the unmarked grave of the deserter, and left.

But Aramis turned back.

She wondered if their roles had been reversed, if Marsac had been the one concussed and dazed, would things have turned out differently? If her brain hadn't been addled and confused like it had been, would she have been able to deal with the full repercussions of that slaughter? Would she have been able to handle the horror, and the scars, the screams and the blood? The bodies littered around her, real and horrible?

But it was something that she would never know, because it had happened how it had, and no matter how much she wished and she prayed, that she could go back or that it never happened—it wasn't going to make it true. She just knew that no matter what horrors she was bound to see in her life as a Musketeer, she wasn't going to turn her back on Athos, Porthos, d'Artagnan or Treville. They were her family. Like a warrior angel, she would defend them with her life.

She was going to do what Marsac had said with his last breath. She would live, and love, surrounded by friends and family, and not let the past consume her.

 _Head wounded, senseless. Men's dying screams. Marsac dragging her away. They fall into the cold snow. He cries over her in his arms. Desperate, scared, breaking, lost_ — _broken…_

"Rest now, Marsac. With your brothers..." She drew his sword from her belt, and stabbed it deep into the earth at the head of his grave, marking it, before she too, turned her back. "Free of the burden on your heart, my love."

* * *

Aramis returned to the garrison, intended to just let the last two days take her apart. Not want for company, but herself, God, past memories and wine.

"Aramis?" The woman reluctantly turned to the young man, every bit as wet as her.

"Have you been out here this whole time?" she eyed him, looking every bit the drowned rat. She noticed his black eye, and the harsh brusing exposed on his forehead with his wet hair slicked back and remembered what Constance had said about him being hurt and instantly, all her previous plans were pushed to the back as she took a step towards him.

But whatever amount of man-handling she was about to put him through to determine his true condition was put to a quick halt as he took her into warm, if wet, embrace.

"Wha—?" And then, like with the snap of the fingers, whatever she had forced to ride in the shadows of her heart, came forth. She squeezed him tightly in return, just needing to hold something, to anchor her into this world.

"I'm sorry about your friend." He whispered, and she nodded into his shoulder, her tears discarded in the rain. For it wasn't this man that he had met and she had encountered five-years later, but that man before the massacre, before he lost the essence of who he truly was, that d'Artagnan was giving his sympathy's towards. And she remembered just exactly why she loved him like a brother—like family.

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

 _As you have read, I wrote it so Aramis and Marsac were in a relationship. I wrote a small tag for this concept in chapter 2, when Aramis thought she was about to die and /"_ She remembered her friend, partner, and lover, the man that she thought she might marry and have children with, how they'd both leave the Musketeers when the time was right—before he had left her surrounded by 20 cold Musketeers."/ _that was Marsac. And I ended with that scene between Aramis and d'Artagnan, because that's just the kind of guy that he is._

 _y_


	5. Pursuit 5: The Homecoming

**a/n:** **Disclaimer: I do not own The Musketeers, just going to borrow them and their adventures for a bit.** **No copyright infringement is intended; just some good old gender-bending!**

 **Episode Tag:** _Season 1, Episode 5: The Homecoming._

* * *

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

 **Charl(i)es' Angels!**  
 **Pursuit 5 :** _The Homecoming_

Porthos pushed herself through the darkness and attempted to bring herself back to consciousness. The cook-a-doodle-do of a nearby rooster sending a sharp stab through her brain, jolting her. The animal did it several more times and she knew it was a complete cock. When she found it, she decided that she would behead it and consume it for its punishment.

 _"You're a chicken, Charlie!" Aramis booed the Gascon. "Porthos, show the man how it's done!"_

 _Porthos grinned at her best-friend as the Spaniard grabbed the melon from the table and pressed her back against the post in front of the stables in the garrison, and placed the fruit upon her head._

 _The inebriated woman whipped out her pistol._

 _"Whoa!" d'Artagnan exclaimed, wide-eyed as the tall woman actually aimed it at the other woman_ — _or at least, attempted to as her arm wavered widely. "Porthos, this is insane. You'll kill her!" But the woman continued to take aim. "Athos, come on, please tell me that you can at least see_ — _"_

 _"Come on, d'Artagnan! Where's your sense of adventure? Of excitement?" Aramis wondered._

 _"It's firmly placed in reality! I'm all for fun, but this_ — _this is just dangerous."_

 _"Porthos has never made the shot_ — _sober." Athos told him, watching the scene with her arms crossed over her chest, nursing a cup of wine and as if it wasn't a rare occurrence. "Drunk, she never misses."_

 _"Ready?" Porthos slurred._

 _"Wait!" Aramis held out her arms and d'Artagnan breathed in relief, but then the other drunk woman continued with, "I wanna fix my hair in case you_ do _miss."_

 _Porthos laughed and stumbled back a step. Athos reached out and stabilized her._

 _"Just enjoy the show, d'Artagnan." Athos clapped him on the shoulder. And then deadpanned, "It could be their last act, after all."_

 _The tall woman directed her pistol at Aramis once more, and squinted down the sight_ — _and fired._

Porthos groaned as she blinked open her eyes and stared into the grey, open sky overhead. The thumping in her brain seemed to be a double act as she forced herself up onto her elbow and looked at her surroundings. It was clearly Paris, but not the garrison. Before she could start to discern exactly where her night ended, she saw the body.

"Aramis!" she gasped. Its face was away from her and she felt sick. The last thing she remembered was shooting the melon from Aramis' grinning head—or had she? She felt sick as she quickly crawled across the ground towards it, reaching out just as three Red Guard came running around the corner.

"Take him!" he shouted, and blew the whistle around his neck.

Porthos stumbled to her feet, and came up swinging as the other two came at her. She sent the first one stumbling with a punch and grabbed the other one, throwing him to the ground with yell. And answering the call of the first Red Gaurd, four more men arrived and she only got in a few more punches and a couple of kicks before she found several sword points at her throat and was forced to her knees, two holding fast to her arms.

Had she not been hung over, her reaction time cut to none, she could have taken them, she knew, seven or not, they were Red Guard and poor swordsmen as a principle. They caught her at a bad moment, otherwise, their teeth would be scattered around the street like pearls and they'd be on the ground not her.

"Not a him then." The de facto Red Guard with the whistle remarked as he approached, stepping over the body. "One of Treville's Inseparables," he sneered. "One of his concubines, more like!" the other men around her laughed and with a growl, she threw her head to the side and cracked one of the men holding her fast in the face. "Musketeers! Always good for a little street theatre." He back-handed her, sending her already pounding head, ringing. "Get her up. You're going to the Chatelet, but looking at you, I'd say you're coming home."

They dragged her to her feet, and she let out a satisfied sound as she kicked and caught the man between the legs, before she was dragged through the streets and to the Chatelet.

She nearly sagged in relief as she was dragged around the body and finally caught a glimpse of its identity. It was the only relief that she'd had got out of this whole mess. It wasn't Aramis who was laying there, like she had first despaired, laying dead with a bullet in the head, but some lad that had to be around the same age as d'Artagnan—but thankfully wasn't him either.

They threw her into an already occupied cell, and as the key was turned, the roommates stood and approached with chuckles and grins. They thought they were in for an easy time because she was a woman, she taught them soon enough. With a sneer, she punched each out and gave them a few extra bruises in her disgust and anger.

And then she was left to wait.

 _The melon exploded all around Aramis, and the woman whooped as she skipped over to the other three, melon pieces caught in her curls, snatching a flagon of wine from a Musketeer's hand as she passed._

 _"See, Charlie? That's how it's done! Porthos, the best drunken-shot in all of Paris!" she wrapped her arm around the taller woman's shoulder._

 _Porthos grinned at her. "'Ow 'bout we try it blindfolded next?"_

 _Aramis didn't look so sure anymore. "What?"_

 _"Yeah." She nodded. "You wear a blindfold, an' I'll see if I can still make th' shot!"_

 _The Spaniard let out a bark of laughter. "You are drunk off your gourd, my sister... I like it!"_

 _"Ugh!" d'Artagnan groaned and put his hands over his face. "I feel old, and too clear about all this."_

 _"d'Artagnan," Athos clapped him on the shoulder loftily. "Take a drink, it will help in the long of it." And put a cup of wine in his hand._

 _He downed it in a breath, then another when Athos refilled it. It was a celebration, what was the harm?_

* * *

News of a Musketeer being arrested spread fast, and Athos, Aramis and d'Artagnan were allowed a visit.

"I see you're making new friends," Athos commented dryly upon noticing her fellow cellmates unconscious on the floor.

Porthos snorted in derision. "They'll do again later, if I'm not out of 'ere soon."

"How are you, Porthos?" d'Artagnan asked worriedly. To see the woman behind bars, it didn't seem right. He remembered when he was in the Chatelet, though they had been under different circumstance, in was nonetheless real.

"Best I can be, not rememberin' a damn thing." She told them. "When am I getting' outta 'ere, Athos?"

"Treville's working on that right now." Athos replied. "You didn't kill him." She said with a firm surety that Porthos wished she could feel. Athos didn't avert her blue gaze until the tall woman nodded back.

"What the hell happened, Porthos?" Aramis questioned. "You must remember something. The dead man. Do you know who he was? Where you met him?"

She squinted lightly, the pain in the back of her head like a dull roar through her skull. "I don't know, I can't—"

"Alright, times up!" a Red Guard approached, a key ring in his hand.

Athos turned a cold gaze on the man. "We just arrived."

He shook his head. "This lot's heading to the magistrate's court for their sentencing."

"Already?" Aramis shook her head. "She's just g—"

"I don't make the rules." He said and unlocked the cell door. It creaked when he opened it, and Porthos tensed as he grasped her forearm.

Athos shook her head and the tall woman allowed herself to be led from the cell after a moments hesitation.

"It's going to be fine, Porthos." Aramis tried to reassure. "This is just a big misunderstanding. The judge will see that. You... you'll see."

"We'll fix this, Porthos." Athos called after the woman.

d'Artagnan looked at Athos as Porthos was taken from sight, anxiety painted clear across his face. "We will fix this... won't we?"

Athos exhaled and shared a look with Aramis, but said nothing.

* * *

Three men were sentenced before her, none with hanging, but two were to carry out sentences in the Chatelet and the other received a whipping, and then Porthos found herself facing the Magistrate, high up on his bench, sneering down at her. Aramis, Athos, d'Artagnan and Treville stood witness at her left, behind the rail, and the gathered crowd behind her.

"I think it's quite clear what happened here." The judge announced from behind his bench.

"Your Honour," Treville spoke up from next to Aramis, stepping forward, his blue uniform cloak draped over his left shoulder. "If I might say something?"

"We'll come to you, Captain Treville." The judge spat his name in contempt, and with a clenched jaw, Treville stepped back. The old man turned to Porthos. "Well? What do you have to say for yourself?"

When Porthos didn't immediately answer, one of the Red Guard standing on either side of her, gave her a shove. She glared at the man over her shoulder, her hands held in front of her by shackles and turned back to the judge. She was on edge, anxiety putting a thumb in her throat.

"It was my birthday..."

 _It was late. The celebration was all but dead, the other Musketeers passed out drunk around the garrison yard, those too drunk to make it back to their quarters at least. d'Artagnan had already headed back to the Bonacieux residence, Aramis was out in a man's bed somewhere, and Athos was... well Athos was... she had no idea where the other woman had disappeared to._

"... The party was over, so I took a walk."

 _She found a bottle that still had drink in it, and she took a long pull of the contents. She wasn't ready to let the night end just yet. Like every year, there was a place she went. It was a familiar haunt she used to go with her past life, before she'd become a Musketeer. She entertained the brief notion that she might see him, but every year, she never did._

"And what did you do on this... _walk_?" the judge waved his hand.

"I, um..." She looked at the floor in embarrassment. She'd worked hard on her reputation as a Musketeer, she had to make a hard shell around herself growing up to survive, but there was a softness inside of her that very few knew about and she didn't want to air her frilly braies in a crowd like this, but had little choice. "Admired the beauty and the serenity of Paris after dark."

The crowd laughed at her response and she clenched jaw to keep from hollering at them to shut up, her cheeks hot, but the judge didn't look amused.

 _It was the seedier part of Paris, a tavern called the Wren. It was as close to her home as she was willing to venture, without stepping foot in the Court. It didn't matter how much she might want to see him and her, after the way things were left, Porthos wasn't sure how much of a welcome she would get._

 _She sat at a table alone, drinking. Remembering. When an old woman came from the bar and spotted her sitting alone. She approached and sat in the chair across to her._

 _"And what brings your sort to this part of town?" She asked, seeing the tall woman's pauldron._

 _Porthos didn't tell her to shove off, actually, she quite liked the way the old woman's voice sounded. It had a wise and soft quality to it and Porthos found herself opening up to this stranger._

 _"I grew up 'round here. It's my birthday." She took a drink from her cup._

 _"Many happy returns!" she smiled at the woman. "How old are you?"_

 _Porthos didn't answer for a moment before she shrugged. "No idea. I don't know when I was born." She gave the old woman a sad smile. "This is just th' day I picked when I was a kid. One day's a good as another t' celebrate."_

 _The old woman looked at her in sympathy, but it wasn't as much a rare occasion around these parts as one might think. Children left to fend for themselves at such a young age, from their parents abandoning them for many a-reason_ — _too many mouths to feed, a black heart, death_ — _too young to know their birthdays, to remember their name, where they came from. It was just a sad truth of a harsh cycle._

 _Porthos glanced into the dregs of her cup, and then gave a melancholy chuckle. She raised her hand and called to the bar server. "Get this fine lady a drink!"_

"What happened next?" the judge said when Porthos had stopped talking.

This was what had concerned the dark-skinned woman so much while she was waiting in the Chatelet. The blank space that she was drawing and kept drawing, every time she tried. And when she tried to force the matter, her head thumped uncomfortably with her frustrated heartbeat.

"I can't 'xactly recall." She finally admitted. "I must 'ave fallen asleep."

She cringed internally at her thin suggestion and remembered not too long ago, when Marsac had returned and threw their lives into an upheaval, especially Aramis'—when they had been in Treville's office, after the initial attempt on the Duke, and d'Artagnan had weakly suggest he'd slipped on some wet grass. She imagined what he must have felt saying that, but she was sure to have felt it a hundred times more. This would be no scolding from Treville, her life was hanging in the balance.

"Asleep!" the judge was incredulous at her answer. "To awake alongside a dead man with a bullet in his head?"

Porthos a glanced towards her sisters and brother, but they looked as helpless as she felt. "Yes." She had no choice but to answer, and they hung their heads in dread.

"And you claim to have no idea how that happened?"

Porthos shook her head in defeat after a moment.

"I see." The judge scoffed and shook his head. He waved his hand at Treville. "You might speak now, Captain. And make it good. I can see this ruling a minute away."

Treville didn't waste time in stepping forward and addressed the magistrate in front of his bench. He could feel Porthos' anxiety behind him, his hat held in his hands. "Porthos du Vallon is a woman of fine reputation. A good soldier and a Musketeer of many years' standing."

"du Vallon?" the judge repeated, his lips twisting. "Another of these fellows who adopts a noble name. A woman," he laughed. "Playing a man's game. I see the respect you have, Treville. I can see it in the three _'soldiers',_ you have stood next to." He looked over towards Athos, d'Artagnan, and Aramis; one cold, one indignant, the other hot. "Women, in a man's world— _this_ is what happens." He turned his sexist gaze back upon Porthos behind Treville. "A murderess!"

"I know many born noble who could not hold a candle to Porthos." Treville said, his mouth hard.

"Let me tell you something life has taught me, Captain!" the Judge said. "You can dress a bitch in a fine suit..."

"...oh..." Treville scoffed in disgust, and he could feel the building rage from Porthos, not to mention from the direction of his Inseparables and their unofficial member, d'Artagnan.

"...But once a mongrel, always a whore." He finished, and the crowd murmured.

Porthos clenched her jaw so hard she was sure to break her teeth, and she seethed, but did not take out the Guards on either side of her and go for this man. People said many harsh and cruel and demeaning things about her. Because her heritage, because of the colour of her skin, the way she talked, or acted. Many found her fists' in response, but if she were to push past Treville and leap across the bench and strangle the bigoted judge with the chains between her wrists, she would get a death sentence for sure.

"A man lies dead—murdered! An example must be made! Porthos _du Vallon_ , I sentence you to death by beheading to be carried out immediately!" and the judge banged his gavel in finality. The gathered audience struck up a din.

And her pauldron was ripped from her shoulder, like the sound of a tear ripping into the universe. Everything that she had fought so hard to be, ever since she was old enough and bold enough to be herself, was represented in that shoulder guard.

"This is highly irregular, sir!" Treville shouted. "I will lodge an appeal with the King!"

"That is your right, Captain." The judge said dismissively. "But I suggest you make haste, because in a few moments time, you'll be petitioning for a dead woman's head! Take her to the execution wagon."

Her mind was shocked into compliance, and she let out no resistance as she was dragged down the isle, passed her sisters and brother, the latter of whom attempted to leap over the rail to get to her before he was held back. But as soon as she reached that threshold of the courthouse, her brain kicked in.

"Delay them!" Treville shouted at the three.

She struggled against the Red Guards, digging in her heels, but more men just came and picked her up and carried her bodily. She writhed in their hold as they came onto the street, the crowd inside the court rushing after to witness her execution; Aramis, Athos and d'Artagnan struggling to push through.

Last night, she had been celebrating her birthday, and today, she was sentenced to death.

The journey from the court house to the portable execution cart was a drastically short one, and even as she elbowed a Guard in the face—"Strap her to the cart!"—she was hauled up and her restrained on either side of her block.

"Cut the rat tail off!" the executioner ordered.

"No!" was all Porthos was able to protest, whipping her head around before her long braid was grabbed roughly and her movement pulled to a halt. Her high collar was pulled down and roots of her braid pulled taut. There was the digging pain in the back of her neck where the dagger cut her as they sawed off her hair, leaving the path clear for her death's sword.

"No need for all that pretty hair where you're going." He laughed, and then lined up his sword—

A masked man pushed through the gathered crowd, and hit one of the Red Guard on the back with a club, and a second masked person brandished a pistol—And that was when the shooting started.

Porthos laughed as she realized what was happening as her executioner fell off the side of the cart, dead. There were shouts and more shots fired, more Red Guard dead; and then the cart's mule was whipped into action and the cart took off down the street.

Porthos looked up at the masked woman in front of her. "Athos!" she grinned.

"Porthos!" d'Artagnan screamed from behind, and she looked back over her shoulder, between the two masked at the back of the cart, to see the Gascon running after the cart with fear on his face, Aramis and Athos right behind him. He fired a shot, catching one of the men as she turned back to the woman standing in front of her—and received the butt of a pistol at the temple.

"No!" d'Artagnan cried, having no other choice but to stop running as the cart was too fast for him and disappeared from sight.

Athos knelt by the masked dead man and tore off the mask. The man's appearance was unremarkable, but his neck wasn't. "There." She pulled down his collar and revealed the Fleur-de-lis brand. "A mark of a criminal."

"Whoever they are, they saved Porthos." d'Artagnan said, at least having that relief. If it hadn't been for these masked men, Porthos would be dead right now.

Aramis crouched by the dead man's head and stared at the mark branded into the side of his neck. "I think I know who took Porthos." She said, sharing a knowing gaze with Athos.

* * *

d'Artagnan followed Aramis and Athos on horseback from the court, deeper and deeper into the poorer parts of Paris, until they laid upon an enclosed entrance. They three dismounted and secured their horses, and when d'Artagnan stepped passed that open threshold, it was like he was entering an entirely different world.

The street was crowded with people; men, women, children, young and old. Littering stoops and open windows and makeshift scaffolding. And as soon as they entered this place, the people started banging and hammering on anything available, the off-rhythm sound sending the young Gascon on edge as they were watched openly.

"Why are they doing that?" d'Artagnan asked, his gaze shooting from one person to the next, taking note of all the men and women who wore masks like the ones who had taken Porthos, and everyone of them with a weapon of some sort.

"It's a warning," Aramis said and d'Artagnan automatically reached for his sword hilt. She touched his hand, stopping its progress and shook her head. "Do nothing, unless you're attacked."

That did not help assuage his amped nerves, so he focused on something else so he didn't unconsciously provoke an attack. "So, where are we?"

"The Court of Miracles." Athos said.

Their progress was forced to a stop as they came upon a group of the masked blocking the street.

"This is too dangerous." Aramis was tense, but kept her harquebus rested on her shoulder in a non-threatening manner. "We should turn back."

Athos nodded in agreement, and patted d'Artagnan on the shoulder as she turned back. Despite the danger, he had to push back the urge to draw his sword anyways and push through to find Porthos, but made himself turn his back and follow the two woman, least they leave him behind.

"What about Porthos?" he hissed, glancing behind him to see that the masked were walking slowly after them, urging them backward like a collie and its herd of sheep.

"She'll be safe for now." Aramis murmured, sighing. "She has friends here."

* * *

The Court of Miracles was a miniature kingdom within Paris, of professional thieves, highway robbers, whores and beggars. The inhabitants of the Court were violent and feral. The Cardinal was in the process of attempting to persuade them to join the King's march of progress. It was to be the first district to be cleared for rebuilding, but it was no simple task. They remained strongly attached to their depravity, their way of life as depraved as it was.

A modern capitalistic city for a modern France. That was what the King was attempting to accomplish. It was to be his legacy to a grateful nation. But how was he to do such a thing when there was such an body sore in Paris like the Court of Miracles?

The Cardinal didn't intend for the place to be standing for much longer, he was going to blow it away. In fact, he had a man on it, who had a woman on the inside. She wasn't Milady, but she might feasibly entrench her shadow.

* * *

Porthos had awoken in motion and in darkness. It was forced, a sack pulled over her head, blinding her to her surroundings. And her movement wasn't that of a cart or wagon, but two men grasping her arms and dragging her along. She stumbled to get her feet under her, and was too disoriented to struggle free. Too nauseas to try and count the turns that they took and which way, concentrating on not throwing up with the sack over her head.

* * *

They made it back to the 'outside' world and their horses without incident, but they didn't breath any easier. Porthos was still somewhere in there, away from them.

"Who are these people?" d'Artagnan questioned in confusion. "Why would they save Porthos?"

"Porthos was an orphan, born and raised here." Athos revealed to d'Artagnan.

"Amongst thieves?" he gaped.

Athos gaze a small nod in answer and he leaned against the broken wagon before the entrance of the Court. He never would have thought that the tall woman could come from a place like this. But he supposed, he never would have thought Athos was the Comtesse de la Fère, though she held that kind of detached authority about her. Or that Aramis had intended to be a Sister nun, before her life had led her to the Musketeers. He thought about Porthos and cards, and the brutality in which she could fight, and her unusual strength. Had she learned to fight like that in order to survive through her childhood?

When they had escorted Bonnaire from La Havre to Paris, he had learned that Porthos' mother, a freed slave from West Africa, had come to Paris, and died when Porthos was just a child. She had been left here, in the Court of Mircales, to defend for herself.

"She never said a word." He whispered, and his awe and opinion of the woman rose. To survive like she had, and still be the person that she had become, you had to have something nearly indestructible inside.

"She's a little touchy about it." Aramis replied from next to her horse, finished strapping her harquebus to the saddle holster. "She's worked harder than any of us to become a Musketeer and for the life that she has now. She doesn't like to tell people because of how they might judge her as undeserving."

"Undeserving?" d'Artagnan shook his head. "I've never met someone _more_ deserving!" he paused. "So, why do they call it the Court of Miracles?" he asked as a lad came limping towards Athos with a coin bowl in one hand, bandages around his eye.

"Because," Athos said and d'Artagnan watched the proceedings with an open mouth. "Entering it opens the eyes of blind men," she lifted the boy's eye patch to reveal a healthy eye beneath, blinking into the light. "And gives more cripples the use of their legs than our Lord ever did," and she pulled out her _main gauche_ and sliced through the binds that tied the boy's leg out of sight. She dropped a coin into his bowl. "Buy yourself an instrument. You have the hands of a musician." Wide-eyed, the boy nodded his head rapidly and left in a faster pace than he had arrived in.

He shook his head lightly and closed his mouth. "What... What if Porthos did it?" d'Artagnan voiced reluctantly. Two hard stares pinned him down. He rubbed the nape of his neck. "She was drunk. And shooting melons off heads. I'm sure it was an accident, but what if she's guilty? What is she—"

Aramis' eyes flashed and she threw him back against the abandoned wagon he'd been standing next to, her fists balled in his doublet. "This is Porthos. She's no murderer and she didn't kill that man. You understand? To doubt her... what kind of friend—when we find her, you're going to apologize!"

"Okay. Alright." Athos pulled Aramis off him. "Let's not be at each other's throats, when there's several there already. I'm going to find Porthos. You two make nice, and go to the Wren. See what you can find." She patted both on the shoulder.

Aramis and d'Artagnan looked at each other for a moment before they mounted their horses and left Athos to the Court. She sighed after them.

* * *

Finally, her motion was stopped when Porthos was shoved down onto her knees. The sack was yanked from her head and she blinked into the beam of sunlight that shone through the high window directly at her. She held up her hand and squinted at the figure, almost haloed as they stepped into the sun's beam, blocking it.

Though it had been years, she would know the short, dark-skinned, stocky woman anywhere. "Charon." She started to push to her feet, but one of the masks that had dragged her, kicked her back down. Her lip curled and she sneered at him over her shoulder and said in a rough voice, "Do tha' again, and I'll break your leg."

Charon jerked her chin and the men backed off. "It's been a while, huh?"

"Why am I 'ere?" she asked. She'd just been thinking about this woman last night. Now, she was going to face the truth of it. If the other woman held hard feelings towards her, after all these years.

"Aren't you glad to be back?" Charon raised a brow.

Porthos sat back onto her knees, glancing around the room before she looked back at the woman, her expression tight. "Yeah, of course. Why?"

"'Cause we're all still friends—though you forgot about us a long time ago." Her tone was off-hand, but her eyes were not.

"I didn't forget."

Charon smiled down at her peaceably, and held out her hand. After a moment, Porthos took it and rose to her feet. She guessed the footing was fair.

"You really don't remember whether you killed that man?"

"No more than you do." Porthos replied, and Charon's dark eyes flickered. "You seem disappointed."

Charon shook her head. "I have a reputation to think of. People just believe I saved the life of a murderer."

Porthos nodded in understanding and only said, "Maybe you did." Though she wouldn't be the first murderer in these parts.

Charon smirked at her remark and held open her arms, pulling in the taller woman for a hug. Porthos let herself be taken, though she couldn't relax into it like she'd always been able to with Aramis. She was too on-edge, too hyped to be anything but be dubious. As they pulled apart, she didn't miss the throne-like chair sitting right there.

"You the Queen 'ere, now, or somethin'?" Porthos indicated the chair.

Charon glanced back at the chair and snorted. "Queen of sorts."

* * *

"Aramis," d'Artagnan stopped the woman before she could enter the tavern. "I—"

She sighed. "I didn't mean to be so harsh, Charlie, but Porthos didn't kill that man."

He nodded. "You're right. And I am sorry that I doubted."

She patted him on the chest in acceptance. "So let's find out what _really_ happened."

They stepped through the threshold, and paused, surveying the cliental.

"There." Aramis murmured, nodding towards a table that sat an old woman alone.

On their way to the table, Aramis bought a bottle from the bar, and slid into the empty seat across from the old woman, filling up her cup. d'Artagnan leaned against the wall behind her shoulder.

"Is it raining Musketeers outside?" the old woman inquired, a gentle lilt in her voice.

Aramis chuckled lightly and took off her hat, setting it on the table. "I'm guessing you saw my friend here."

She nodded and took a drink from her filled cup. "Tall—sad—prettier than you."

Aramis glanced over her shoulder at d'Artagnan and murmured, "I know I shouldn't be, but I find myself wounded." He gave a quiet snort and shake of the head and she turned back to the old woman. "Did you talk with her?"

"She bought me a drink. She was a gentlewoman."

"And did you notice anything unusual?" d'Artagnan wondered, joining the conversation.

The woman drank as she thought back. "Now that I think on it, there was an argument involving a young man."

"Did you know this young man?" Aramis asked.

But the old woman shook her head. "Never seen him before. He didn't look the type to drink here."

Aramis and d'Artagnan shared a look; that was what they wanted to here. The Musketeer rose to her feet, pressing her hat back upon her head, and sliding a coin across the table top.

She took it with a smile. "Now I look proper, I can see you're the prettier one."

Aramis smiled, and put a hand lightly over her heart, looking touched as they left the woman to her drinking. "I feel better now."

d'Artagnan shook his head. "Buying compliments. I know your dirty little secret now, Aramis." They stepped out into the grey day from the dark surroundings of the bar and mounted their horses. "Do you really think that was our man?"

"Perhaps." Aramis allowed. "The crime scene is just around the corner from here. Shall we take a look?" and urged her horse on.

* * *

Aramis squatted amid the street that Porthos had been arrested at, and where the body of the young man was discovered by the Red Guard. All just around the corner from the Wren. It was no coincidence, but the scene didn't make sense.

Aramis squatted center street, her hat in her hands. "Where's the blood?" she questioned. "I once saw a man take a musket ball back in a street fight—Pfft!" she mimed brain splatter from a head shot. "Contents of his skull painted a rather pretty picture all around."

"And yet," d'Artagnan continued the thought, "There's not a drop of blood or shard of bone." She stood. "He wasn't shot here!" he realized.

Aramis nodded her agreement. "Perhaps were should pay a call on the victim himself." She chucked him on the chest. "See what he has to say about all of this." She put her hat back on and returned to their horses.

"Is there something you're not telling me, Aramis?" he mused and followed, a smile playing on his lips. "Can you speak with the dead?"

"Charlie," she tsked gently. "There are a great many things you need not know—but my speaking to the dearly departed... I would entrust that secret to you, little brother."

* * *

"You bring me to the most lovely places, Aramis." d'Artagnan said to the woman, who smiled in turn, as the coroner led them into the belly of the Paris morgue. It looked as pleasant as it smelled.

"Here, we wash the cadavers and remove the internal organs." He lead them to the table where the victim lay, covered in a dirty linen. "After the body has been salted and stuffed with straw to prevent odours, it will be put on display until someone identifies it."

"Just how I imagined it." d'Artagnan muttered.

"In this case, though, it's not necessary." The coroner nodded at the small shelf at the head of the table that displayed the victims person effects.

d'Artagnan spotted the indicated object, and picked up the watch. "Nuremberg egg." He remarked, inspecting it and Aramis raised a brow at him. "Portable timekeeping." He shrugged and opened it and noted the inscription. "Expensive."

"Jean de Mauvoisin, a son of nobility." The coroner said solemnly. "A tragedy indeed." d'Artagna fingered a brass key on the table as well and picked it up. "Put the key down. That's evidence!"

d'Artangana and Aramis sharked a fast look, a subtle nod.

"One question." Aramis held up her finger, and then lifted the sheet. "The victim was shot in the head, right?"

"Yes." The older man nodded. While he was distracted, d'Artagnan quickly pocketed both the watch and the brass key.

"Why carve him up?" she wondered, giving the Gascon a minimal nod.

"This is science. We can learn a great deal from a fresh cadaver!" he said defensively.

"Oh, I see." She peered closer at the work. "The pistol was close."

"Conjecture." The old man crossed his arms.

Aramis gave him a level stare. "Based upon extensive experience on the battlefield."

"Hardly a clinical observation," he sulked.

"Well, killing's not an exact science, _Monsieur,"_ d'Artagnan piped up, "but a messy business."

d'Artagnan grinned internally. He remembered back to when he had first met his Angels and watching how seamlessly Aramis and Porthos had worked when interrogating Dujon. Their communication between each other a collection of nods and silent looks that spoke volumes. He never thought he could know someone so well, as to be able to do that, but he was starting to convene there with these three women and it gave him a warm feeling inside.

She nodded. "And as soldiers, it is _our_ business." She put an arm around the Gascon's shoulder, nodded, and steered them away, back the way they came. "The killer was no more than a foot away when the shot was fired." She murmured to him. "This was no accident—it was murder. The judge was right on that, at least."

"Now all we have to do is find the true killer," he agreed.

* * *

Athos slowly made her way deeper and deeper into the Court of Miracles, and old, hooded cloak disguising her from a Musketeer, a limp going further to her cause as she huddled in on herself. She was determined to find her sister, and wasn't planning on turning back until then.

* * *

Charon nodded to a short and lean, masked man across the room and Porthos narrowed her eyes, watching the man approached with a lethal step, wary. Even as the familiarity pulled at her, it wasn't until the man stopped, and pulled the hooded-mask from his head, revealing the handsome face and blond mane, that he registered with her. It had been so long, had she truly forgotten that picture of the man.

"Flea!" a huge grin broke across Porthos' features, brightening her previously dark spirit. "Is that you?"

"Oh, recognize me, do you?" he raised a brow. "All these years, and not one letter."

"How d'you know I even learned to write, eh?" she raised a brow in return and then chuckled; their old times just clicking into place, even after all this time.

A small smile broke across his previously sour expression. "You always were a show-off." He started to approached the taller woman, but when Charon held her arm out, he changed direction and slipped into place beside the short woman, his coldness returning, and a pointed-possessive flashing across hers.

Porthos' own brief of happiness vanished as she looked at the pair, sighed, and nodded. "It's like that now, is it? You two are together." She cleared her throat. "I'm happy for you." She gave them a tight smile. That used to be them, her and Flea. But she gave that up when she left the Court. She was happy for them, she really was.

"You had your chance, Porthos." Charon stuck her chin out, her eyes narrowed and arm tightening around the man. "If you wanted Flea, you should have taken him with you."

Porthos' eyes narrowed, a resentment flashing inside of her. "You think I didn't try?" They glared at each other for a moment, before the tall woman forced herself to back down. She was happy for them, both deserved to find someone to love and if they found that in each other after she left, who was she to interfere? Even if it was like a stab to the heart. "But you're right." She held up her hands peaceably and chuckled.

Charon shot a glance at Flea and said to Porthos, "Rest now. Tomorrow, we'll get you out of Paris."

Porthos instantly shook her head. There was no way that she was going to leave Paris. When Athos made a promise, she kept it, no matter how long it took her. And Aramis was her best-friend, her sister, the woman would never abandoned her, leave her hanging. And d'Artagnan, who had become her little brother and a dear friend in such a short time, was loyal to a fault. No, wanted or no, she had too much in Paris to just leave behind, no matter the risk to herself.

"The longer you stay—every minute increases the risk to _all_ of us." She spoke over any protests.

"Charon." A masked man interrupted and gestured for the woman's approached.

"I'll be back." Charon told Porthos, and pressed a kiss to Flea's lips. "What is it?" she muttered quietly to the man as they walked from the main chamber.

"We have a visitor." The masked answered, just as low.

Porthos watched them go with narrowed eyes and when she turned back, it was to find Flea standing right close in front of her. "You forgot about us." She whispered.

"I didn't fit in here." She protested quietly.

"You could have, if you really wanted to."

"That's not fair." She shook her head.

Amusement suddenly sparked in his eyes as he looked her up and down playfully, appreciatively. "We'd best get you out of those clothes... before someone mistakes you for a noble and slits your throat."

"Heh."

He brushed passed the woman towards the door, who's dark gaze followed with keen attention. Taken or not, Flea always did know how to move, like no other man she ever knew.

He paused at the door, and looked at her over his shoulder, a smirk quirking the corner of his mouth. "And watch where you lay your eyes, I'm a taken man." And disappeared from the main chamber into the hall.

"Can't 'elp that any more than you." Porthos murmured and followed after the man.

* * *

Her face covered with the scarf around her neck, and her eyes shadowed by the hood of her cloak, Athos had made it into what she safely assumed was the outlaws' headquarters. This was the center of where all those masked congregated.

Porthos was close, it was like she could feel it tingle in her blood.

When she got called out, she had no other choice but to reveal herself as an intruder, and quickly knocked the two men out. And now she had to rush, it would be only a matter of minutes before the other masked were alerted to her presence.

She jumped down a short set of stairs and turned to the right and found a surprised mask in front of her, and a cry from behind alerted to another. The mask behind her charged, and she spun around, grabbing the man and shoving him away, kicking out behind her at the other mask. She turned and punched the man, grabbed his shoulders in his brief senselessness and kneed him in the gut. She grabbed the side of his head and bashed it against the wall, dropping him unconscious to the floor. The mask that she had shoved away, screamed his charge again. Athos ducked just in time to avoid a bashing from a club. As she came up, she grabbed his wielding arm and punched the air out of his gut, and without giving him time to recover, punched him in the face. She shoved him back against the wall and drew back her arm for one last strike, when she felt the barrel of a pistol press against the back of her head and froze.

She released the man in her grip and he slid down the wall to the floor.

"I'm looking for Porthos."

The pistol was removed from her skull and a hand gripped her shoulder, pulling her around to face her adversaries, the scarf pulled from her face and knife put to her throat.

Athos ignored the two masked and focused on the unmasked, dark-skinned, stout woman in front of her, dressed in breaches. "Where is she."

"She's fine." Charon replied curtly.

Athos narrowed her blue eyes. "Take me to her."

Charon shook her head. "She doesn't want to see you."

"She said that to you, did she? Just in case I stopped by."

"She didn't need to tell me, because I _know_ her."

It was clear that her request wasn't going to be answered, so she switched tactics. "Tell her a message, then. Tell her, her friends are working on clearing her name—"

"You left her to die!" Charon snapped. "We saved her. _I_ saved her. I'm her real friend, not you!"

"Friends who murder for the sake of coin. I know your kind." Athos' lips curled as she stared at the woman—stared and saw. "You're a pretender. You don't have to wear one of those masks, because you're wearing one already."

Charon seethed. "The only reason why you're not wearing a bloody-grin from ear-to-ear right now, is because I know Porthos would be upset. Get her out of here," she ordered her men. They grabbed Athos and dragged her back the way she had come. "You should just forget about her! Porthos is with us now."

Charon let out a sound of frustration and clenched and unclenched her hands at her sides. Wondering if she would have saved Porthos still, if it hadn't been for Flea.

* * *

d'Artagnan and Aramis returned the garrison and took up in Treville's office, to fill the man in on what they had discovered thus far, and wait for news on Porthos from Athos.

"The de Mauvoisins were once amongst the great families of France." Treville remarked, and examined the watch that d'Artagnan had secreted away from the morgue. "They've fallen on hard times as of late. But Emile de Mauvoisin is still in the King's inner circle." He leaned back in his chair, his brows furrowed lightly. "What was his son doing drinking in a place like the Wren? It's hardly a place for a man of that stature—even with the family in troubling times."

They hardly had time to sit in contemplative silence before Athos walked in, without knocking; back in her usual wear, removing her gloves. She didn't look pleased.

d'Artagnan rose from his seat and turned to the woman. "Did you find Porthos?"

"No trace of Porthos... but I ran into a _friend_ of hers." Athos replied, her opinion of said 'friend', not a good one. She exhaled. "She thinks that we left her to be beheaded, that we abandoned her."

Treville shook his head. "Porthos fought harder than any to become a Musketeer." Unknowing that Aramis had said a similar piece to d'Artagnan earlier. "She wouldn't give up on us that lightly—like us, her."

Aramis scoffed and shook her head. "Her _friend_ is just spinning webs—hopefully, Porthos will catch wind before she's ensnared."

"The King has allowed further investigation into Porthos' case, at least until the Cardinal's Red Guard find her. Start by making a call on _Monsieur_ de Mauvoisin." Treville ordered. "Find out what kind of company his son kept." He handed the watch back to d'Artagnan, and the trio left, intent to call on _Monsieur_ _,_ further determination in their step.

Treville sat back again with a heavy sigh. Whatever the people from the Courts intention, if it hadn't been for them, Porthos would be buried alongside many of the other fallen Musketeers—and his Inseparables wouldn't be the same, because the trio was fast becoming a foursome.

* * *

"No way, am I wearin' that." Porthos shook her head.

"Can't blame a man for trying." Flea tossed the dress aside and smirked. "Same old Porthos." And handed over a sleeveless tan tunic, crossed with buckles in the front.

Porthos switched jackets. "Whatever, y'know you love me." She rubbed the back of her neck, grimacing as she scratched the cut. She'd almost forgotten that those bastards had sliced her hair away.

Flea caught it and tsked at her. He didn't miss the dried blood that lined the back edge of her doublet's high-collar. "What have you done to yourself now?"

Porthos dropped her hand and straightened under the man's scrutiny. "Nothin'."

Flea's expression said that he clearly didn't believe her, and before she could blink, he pushed her down into the single stool in his bedroom. He went behind and his fingers grazed the nape of her neck, inspecting the slice present.

It obviously wasn't life-threatening, the gouge already sealed with dried blood. He gave a quiet sighed and got a bowl of water and wiped at the dried blood, cleaning the wound.

"The... The Red Guards cut of my braid before they were 'bout to cut my 'ead off." She said gruffly. She hung her head, her short and wavy loose locks tickling her cheeks.

"I know how much your hair meant, Porthos." Flea murmured, his fingers brushing lightly at the hair at the nape of her neck.

Porthos' hair became a point of self-pride for her. Not long before she left the Court of Miracles behind her, they were hit with a lice infestation. Flea was forced to shear off her hair, there was nothing else for it. And when she left, she promised herself that she would never be so low and dirty that again, and made a point of growing her hair. She hadn't cut the back since she'd left the Court, but kept it short around her head otherwise.

Athos had always told her that that braid was a hazard—and it wouldn't be the first time. She'd had several close calls during fights in close-combat, with her opponent grabbing her braid and using it like an anchor. And that was why, when on a mission or during a duel, she kept her braid tucked in her high collar.

"Nothin' to do 'bout it now." She replied, her voice hard. _They were lucky they were already dead,_ she thought.

"Still..." he pulled away abruptly. "We should find Charon, she's probably wondering where we are." And he hurried from the room.

Porthos sighed, rubbing a hand along her face tiredly. With all the excitement, she still hadn't remembered and it frustrated her. She couldn't believe that she'd drunken so much that she blacked out. But it had been her birthday. She shook her head, pressing her knuckles to her forehead—it did nothing to bring the memory forth, but made her forehead hurt needlessly instead.

* * *

Athos, Aramis, and d'Artagnan were let in to see Emile de Mauvoisin by his valet, and told the man of the death of his son. Athos was cut and dry with the truth of it, and perhaps that helped the man.

de Mauvoisin told the three that Jean didn't have enemies, he was a man of conscious and honour. While d'Artagnan was sure that was true, one never thought one had enemies until something like this happened. Aramis asked after his rooms, but they were told that Jean had taken lodgings on Rue Calbert a few months before hand.

d'Artagnan had returned the portable timekeeper to the man before they left, but kept the brass key that had also been in the young man's possession when he died.

They three rode from the de Mauvoisin's chateau, for Rue Calbert.

* * *

Porthos sat across from Charon and Flea in the short woman's 'throne' room, drinking and reminiscing.

"That boy. What if I did kill him?" Porthos whispered doubtfully.

"Either way," Charon told her, "We have to get you out of Paris. It's either that, or hang."

But Porthos shook her head. "I can't leave. I can't. You know I'm grateful—But I think I should stay in Paris and try to clear my name. My f—"

"The risk is far too great—for you and us!" Flea interrupted her. "Unless you don't care about this place anymore?"

Porthos gave him an edged look at that, and he returned it. Ever since she returned, he had been hitting her with a hot and cold attitude—it was exhausting.

"You always did what Flea told you." Charon interceded.

"Except when I begged her to stay." He muttered. Porthos glanced away and Flea shoved to his feet, giving the woman a glare before she left.

Porthos sighed heavily in defeat and looked back up at Charon. "Okay. I'll do it."

Charon smiled at her in relief and leaned across the table towards her, whispering, "I've ordered the celebration for tomorrow. The people here need the distraction from their misery. It's the perfect cover for you to slip away—get out of France."

"Thank you." They picked up their goblets and toasted before drinking.

Porthos felt bad for lying, but what else was she supposed to do? Paris was her home, her life was here, her family. She couldn't leave that, she wouldn't be able to stand not knowing the truth. One way or another, she had to know, good or bad.

She hadn't seen the others since court, but knew they would tirelessly be looking for the truth—seeking out her innocence. And tomorrow, when Charon thought her from Paris, she would find her sisters and brother, and aid in the case.

* * *

"A Bit down-market for a de Mauvoisin." d'Artagnan commented as the entered the building that Jean de Mauvoisin had chosen to live in down in Rue Calbert, instead of at home in the grand chateau with his father.

"The family's bankrupt," Aramis shrugged, "Been living off borrowed money for years.

At his apartment door, d'Artagnan pulled out the brass key from inside his doublet, and presented it to the keyhole, but a match was lacking. "No." He shook his head and quickly stepped back with Aramis unhooked her pistol from her belt, and cocked the weapon.

Aramis took her hat off and used it as a shield from the sparks as she fired at the door's lock.

d'Artagnan raised a brow at her and said dryly, "You could have tried knocking."

"That's true," she agreed, putting her hat back on and kicked the door in. "But I think he'd hardly be able to answer, being from this world, after all." She entered first, the other two following, as she started to reload.

The front room was bare of hardly any furniture, but for a steal framework that was still smouldering with burnt papers. Athos picked through them with a gloved hand. Aramis continued on, packing in her bullet as she discovered Jean's office. Like in the front room, papers were everywhere. She caught sight of a reflection of a masked man behind her through a long looking glass on the wall, and reacted fast.

She spun round on her heel, dropping to her knee and pointing her pistol. But the man was on the move, and the bullet lay into the wall instead of the man. She instantly leapt into pursuit, but the masked man had already leapt through the window, slid down the tin roof, and took off on foot. She was quickly met at the window by Athos and d'Artagnan.

Athos sighed. "That explains how the papers were still burning." She silently cursed her inattention. She had assumed the apartment was empty because its tenant was dead—assuming was the worst thing that a soldier could do.

They went back and did a more thorough search of the office, the man was long gone. Athos through the desk and d'Artagnan through the cabinent

"Whoever he was," Aramis remarked, leaning against the doorjamb, some of the burnt papers from the front room in her hands, "He was keen to cover his tracks; most of this is burnt beyond recognition."

"So, what you're really saying is—someone may have answered the door, had you knocked?" d'Artagnan mused.

"Smartass," she kicked him lightly in the thigh with the side of her boot and he gave her an innocent look. "More like he would have said hello with a bullet."

He turned back to the rolled and loose parchments in the cubbies of the cabinet.

Ignoring them, Athos held out a page. "A page from a Protestant hymnal."

Brows furrowed, Aramis took it in-hand and read it through. "What would a Catholic like de Mauvoisin want with this?"

"Never mind that," d'Artagnan said into the prevailing silence, sitting back on his heels, holding a piece of paper in-hand. "What would he want with 6000 lbs. of gunpowder?" Athos stood and instantly went to him, taking the paper from his hand. "Bought from a mill outside the city three weeks ago." He stood up next to the woman, and pointed, "It carries his signature."

"' _Sermons And Prayers'_ by Pastor Ferrand." Aramis murmured.

d'Artagnan looked at her. "Who's that?"

"A well-known Huguenot preacher."

Athos looked up. "Jean's father is known for his hatred of the Protestant faith. Perhaps the boy was radical." She gestured to the gunpowder receipt. "And was perhaps planning to blow of this Pastor's church."

The Spaniard flicked the brim of her hat and stated sadly, "People have done worse in the name of religion."

* * *

After Flea had made his abrupt exit, Porthos and Charon had gotten pretty heavy into the drinking, which lead them into the reminiscing of past and less complicated times, where nothing mattered but survival and each others backs.

"No. You." Charon pointed at her with her goblet. "You were the best thief here—and you enjoyed it. Don't try and deny it!"

Porthos shook her head but then grinned. "Ah, maybe. Yeah. Th' thrill, the danger... the sisterhood." She whispered the last bit, and Charon's expression stilled. "Ah, an' then I found those things somewhere else. A sisterhood with honour." She gulped from her drink.

"So, there's not honour amongst thieves, is that what you're saying?" Charon responded lowly. "That it's all family until you got something that you want, and then it's the knife instead of words?"

Porthos shook her head. "That's not what I meant!"

"You're Musketeer sisters." She sneered and shook her own head; remembering her encounter with Athos earlier. "Where _are_ they? And where _were_ they? At the Chatelet this morning, at court—but what about when you were about to be executed, right there on the street like some show in the Circus, huh? _I_ saved you, not them!" She tapped her chest, then flung her hand out.

"They're m'friends, Charon."

"Yeah," she scoffed. "I thought I was your friend."

"I can have more than one friend!" she returned in a hard tone.

"You believe that if it makes you happy." She muttered and drank, hunching over her cup. "But someone always gets lost in the shuffle."

Porthos sighed internally, resisting the urge to strike the table—and they slipped into a silence that screamed the distance between them.

She wanted to deny that it wasn't true, but it was. Some when, in her desperation to get out of the Court, she had shoved Flea and Charon behind her as well, even when she promised that wasn't going to happen.

She didn't want to be like her mother, before she'd been freed—a slave. Because that was what was happening to her. The Court swallowed you. It was the Master, poverty the Whip, and you the Slave. It was like a living thing that digested peoples hopes and dreams, withered them out of existence and devoured your soul.

She wanted to be better than the Court people—better than a thief and a beggar—better than a bastard.

But she also had to lay thanks into the Court of Miracles. It made her compassionate to others suffering, it made her strong to defend the helpless. It had made her into the strong woman she was today, it had given her the skills that she had used on several occasions as a Musketeer. It was what made Treville take an interest in her. He didn't look on her origins as something that held her below, but helped elevate who she was. She owed so much to that man, and she knew that she would never be able to pay him back.

And she moved into her new life, and left the old one behind. She'd always head back there, but could never step over that threshold, that line that was drawn between all of Paris and the Court of Miracles. She was afraid, afraid that it would try and swallow her again—and somehow succeed. That she had been able to escape it once, but if she stepped foot back into the Court, she would never leave it again.

That was because a deep part of her was afraid. A part of her would always be that little girl, sobbing for her Mama, her one anchor in the world that kept her grounded in the world. But then she'd met Flea and Charon, and they became her anchors for the longest time until it stopped feeling like an anchor and more like a cage, the Court bearing down upon her. But then Aramis and Athos and Treville came into her life—and now d'Artagnan, too—they'd freed her from that cage and let her soar.

A sharp pain suddenly went through her skull and she gasped, jumping to her feet and knocking the stool to the floor. She hissed, holding her head.

"What's wrong?" Charon demanded, her anger from before vanishing with her concern.

Porthos groaned quietly.

 _She was in the Wren, the old lady passed-out on the table across from her. She'd just blinked, but she might have blacked-out. She blinked drunkenly, her eyelids not corresponding and going at different intervals. Glancing, even over the laughter, she could hear the arguing. Her vision blurry, she spotted a pair of men across the tavern. One man's back was to her, shorter than the other, with a cloak and feathered hat pulled low. Her eyes focused on the other lad, though she wouldn't know it_ — _Jean de Mauvoisin._

"I 'membered somethin' from last night." Head still in her hands, she paced a frenzied step next to Charon, not noticing how she straightened and stiffened at the mention of a recovered memory. "The lad." Charon was doubly startled by that omission. "The one who... I... Who was killed _._ 'E was there—at the Wren. I saw 'im, arguin' with someone."

Charon breathed through her noise, her grip on her cup tightening. "Who?"

But Porthos shook her head with a growl, and Charon gave a silent gasp of relief. It had been there, the thread to the memory, to the rest it. But just as fast as it flashed through her mind, it was gone again before her fingertips could do more than trace it.

With an angry groan, her fist pounded into the wooden table top, making the contents on said surface and Charon, jump from the force. "Why can't I remember?!"

* * *

The valet tethered his small horse at the entry of the Court of Mircales and adjusted the hooded mask draped over his face to better see out the circle holes cut into the material. It had been a close call at Jean's apartment. He looked conspicuously around him, and moved without hold through the streets to his destination, not being stopped or questioned. Not until he was inside the Queen's headquarters, nearing her rooms, was he stopped.

"Charon's busy—and take that mask off!" the man said, standing from the low, makeshift table of cards that he was playing with another.

The valet said nothing, and instead struck the man without warning. As he stumbled back, the valet whipped out a large knife, stabbing the man in the gut, even as the second man jumped to his feet. But the Valet was already pulling the knife free, and the man dropped to the floor, dead, and he stabbed the second man in the ribs, shoving him down against the table, and stabbing him in the back.

He left both men dead, continuing on down the hall towards a frustrated sounding woman and his destination.

* * *

Porthos slumped down in Flea's previously occupied stool, her head in her hands. Charon slid her wine goblet in front of her, but the tall woman pushed it away and shook her head.

"I need to clear my 'ead." She shook her head. "If only I could remember what 'appened!"

"Perhaps you don't want to." Charon hedged. "I mean, if you did kill that boy..."

"Flea's right!" She said vehemently. "I would remember, no matter 'ow much I drank. This doesn't make any sense!"

The sheets hanging over the door were pushed aside, and both woman looked over at the masked man that stepped inside. A cross-look flashed across Charon's face at the man's unannounced interruption, but it died on her lips when he pulled a pistol and aimed it at them. Porthos' body just reacted as the trigger was pulled, and she flung herself at Charon, tackling her to the floor. She grabbed the knife from the short woman's belt and whipped it back at the man. He moved just in time, hissing a curse as the knife grazed his upper arm, before it embedded in the post behind him. He turned and fled.

"Charon!" Porthos quickly turned her attention back to her friend, who was groaning in pain, clutching her upper arm. "Alright?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine. It's nothing." She said through gritted teeth.

Porthos nodded and helped sit her up. "Why would someone try an' kill you?"

Charon's eyes flickered, but Porthos took it to be the pain. "How do you know he wasn't aiming at you?"

That caused Porthos to pause. But who could want her dead? The dead man's father, perhaps? It was something to think on, but not right now. She had to make sure that Charon was fit.

* * *

Athos tasked Aramis and d'Artagnan to see the Pastor Ferrand, while she paid another visit to the grieving father.

The church was empty of any person, lined with cheap wooden benches in two rows, and a simple wooden podium on a slight dais at the front. A locked door stood behind it.

Bells tolled as Aramis did a slow circle, usually, with the sun setting like it was and shinning through the windows, the room would be bathed in many beautiful shades. But the windows were all plain and broken.

She sighed. "Religion without art is so much less... seductive."

"In this Church we worship God, not beauty. " The Pastor spoke from between the aisle, a scar marked the entire right side of his face; chin to hairline.

Aramis turned to him, taking off her hat and hung it on the hilt of her sword. "Well," she looked him up and down with a flick of her eyes. "At least the Catholic faith allows us a little joy before we die."

"But we Protestants will have joy eternal at God's right hand," the Pastor returned coolly. "While you..."

"Roast in Satan's inferno." She finished pleasantly.

He nodded, and said not unkindly, "As all benighted heretics must."

d'Artagnan silently watched as Aramis gave him a tight smile, and pointed upwards at the wall. "Surely even Huguenot believe in windows."

"The stained-glass was removed." He answered in a still tone, eyes tracking d'Artagnan as he turned from them, and stepped up on the dais and to the wooden podium, respectfully inspecting the book that lay open there, fingering the old pages. "If you wish to make a contribution, the collection plate is behind me." Ferrand said pointedly.

Aramis stepped forward a couple steps towards the man. "Where did you serve?" she inquired, her finger tracing the side of her face in indication of the scar he bore alongside his face.

"To many hellholes to recall."

"You killed Catholics?"

"Not specifically." He paused. "I fought for money."

Aramis spread her arms. "And then you found God."

"He found me." Ferrand corrected.

d'Artagnan finally decided to enter the conversation, or lack thereof, in the silence that stretched between the pair as they stared across at the other. He turned to them. "Did you know Jean de Mauvoisin?" the Pastors silent stutter was all the confirmation he needed, and taking a page from Athos' playbook, decided to say the harsh truth without warning, and gauge the reaction. "Well, he's dead now." He came to stand beside Aramis, thumbs hook into his main belt.

Ferrand finally recovered himself, somewhat. "Poor boy. I will pray for his soul." He murmured. "How did he die?"

"He was shot." d'Artangna told him plainly. He paused. "Did you kill him?"

Aramis looked at him, and he gave a one-shouldered shrug. Just because the man was a Pastor, didn't mean he couldn't be a killer—he'd even admitted to such a thing earlier.

"Why would I do such a thing?" he demanded in shock.

"Maybe because he was a Catholic who intended to blow your Protestant Church to Kingdom Come." The Pastor scoffed at the ridiculousness of that statement for several reasons. d'Artangnan flashed a fake smile. "And why is that funny?"

"Jean was not a Catholic. He was a committed member of this congregation."

d'Artangnan and Aramis shared a look. "A Huguenot?" he asked.

"Well," Aramis noted, "his father is a prominent Catholic, a man who hate Huguenots and urges the King to act against them—"

" _Monsieur_ de Mauvoisin only converted to Catholicism to win favour at court." Ferrand corrected her again. "Before him, the family were Protestant for generations. Jean didn't find selling his conscience as easily as his father." And he turned from them pointedly, a clear order for them to take their leave of his church.

So Aramis and d'Artagnan did, the former dropping a coin into the collection plate on the way out.

"There's something he's not telling us," she whispered to d'Artagnan as they left, and he nodded in silent agreement.

* * *

"So, what did Emile de Mauvoisin have to say when you showed him the gunpowder receipt?" Aramis asked Athos, when they met up with the woman again, at a nearby tavern and inn that was nearly equal distances from their previous destinations.

"Claimed to have had no knowledge of the transaction, or any involvement that Jean was plotting with other Huguenot fanatics to attack Catholics. He knew that Jean was involved with Pastor Ferrand and said he warned Jean to break with them."

"Mmm." She nodded. "The Pastor acted in the same regard. But claims he was a devout Protestant, even though his father converted."

d'Artagnan scoffed, his arms crossed lightly over his chest. "Like either would admit anything to our faces."

Aramis raised a brow at him. "You think their lying about their involvement?"

"You said it yourself, Aramis, as we left the church!" he gestured. "The Pastor was holding something back."

"Sure, but that could be an entirely different thing."

"And Emile, he converted, and knows that his son's death is mixed up in all this, yet he said nothing. Why?"

"Either way," Athos said. "We'll conduct another inquiry into the good Pastor tonight—and if he's asleep, all the better."

* * *

"Porthos!" Flea ran into the main chamber, fearful and out of breathe. He gave a relieved breath at the sight of Porthos, but rushed over to the pair where he caught sight of Charon. "Charon! What happened? Are you okay?"

"Help me get 'er to the bed." Porthos told him, and together the helped move the woman to the horizontal surface. "Light a candle an' I'm gonna need some thread an' needle, bandages an' boiled water. This wine will do, too." And she picked the jug off the table as Flea ran to get what she had requested. She also retrieved the embedded dagger.

"'Ow you doin'?"

"Fine!" Charon said through gritted teeth and eagerly drank the drink that Porthos held to her lips.

Flea returned, breathing a bit fast, the bandages tucked under his armpit, rushing as fast as she could with a basin of hot and steaming water. He set it on the nearby tabletop.

"That's everythin'." Porthos nodded her approval, looking over the load, in the dying light that leaked through the windows.

Flea gave her a firm nod and squeezed her shoulder as he went 'round the other side of Charon, taking the woman's uninjured hand in both of hers. Porthos wiped away the blood from the wound with a wet rag, then splashed it with wine, making the woman whimper. The blood looked black in the flickering of the candle flame.

Porthos took up the knife and held the blade over the flame of the candle, sanitizing it.

"Oh, don't worry." She grinned lightly as Flea watched her with wide eyes. "I'm an old 'and at this."

Though she wasn't always the best student, Aramis had made her and Athos sit down and at least learn the basics of treating injury in the field, in case something unthinkable happened to the Spaniard that left her unable to perform. Porthos had avoided it for as long as she could, in the absurd belief that if she didn't take the lessons, then by result, Aramis was not allowed to be injured. It didn't quite work out like that, after Aramis was injured in an ambush and made unconscious. After that, Porthos was forced back to reality and faced several gruesome lessons alongside Athos.

Though nowhere near as expert as Aramis, her intentions were passable. And with a flesh wound that Charon's appeared to be, would be able to treat it without trouble.

"'Old still, 'cause this will 'urt like a right bitch." Porthos warned the short woman.

"Just do it." Charon breathed heavily through her nose, squeezing Flea's hand back.

"Right." And in the flickering light of the candle, Porthos dug the point of the dagger into her flesh. Charon's back arched for a moment and she cried out in pain, but Porthos didn't relent. It would be worse to go back in a second time to try and retrieve the bullet. "Suppose you're right an' the bullet was intended for me," she said, using it both as a distraction for the patient and a way to get unguarded answers, "Why all th' trouble?"

"The Cardinal." She gasped. "His guards can't reach you, so he hires a professional killer."

Flea furrowed his brows at that. "Why would the Cardinal care about someone like Porthos?"

"She's a Musketeer, ain't she?" Charon said shortly, and with a bit of scorn. "The Cardinal hates them, everyone knows that."

But Porthos was shaking her head. "A shootin' in some low dive in the worst part of Paris? It jus' doesn't add up."

Charon groaned hard in pain, breathing heavily; and Porthos suddenly grinned, holding the bullet between two fingers on her bloody hand.

"Got th' sucker!" She dropped the lead onto the table and poured more wine on the wound, making the other woman curse, before she wiped away the blood, and set about sewing the wound with the needle that Flea had threaded for her.

Flea set Charon's hand down, the woman finally passing out for the pain, stress, and exhaustion and got up, leaving. Porthos cut the thread, then wrapped the wound in clothing, ripped into strips. They were clean, and that was what mattered.

She cleaned the sticky blood from her hands in the now warm water in the basin, and stepped out of the main chamber and into the hall, drying her hands on a rag. She found Flea rocking against the wall a little ways down, and slowly approached.

"She's goin' to be fine."

He nodded. "Why did you leave us, Porthos?" Flea asked unexpectedly, catching the tall woman off-guard.

Porthos sighed and decided to answer honestly—it was the least he deserved. "I wanted more." She paused, and decided to do the same to the man. "Why didn't you come with me?"

"I always felt right here." He answered, just as truthfully. "I feel right here. I belong." He shook his head, "It wasn't like that for you. I saw that. You were killing yourself here. It hurt to let you go, but it would have hurt more to see the light inside you die away. So I let you go, because I loved you."

"Me?" She scoffed softly. "You chose Charon."

Flea straightened and narrowed his eyes. He replied defensively. "She feels the same way about this place as I do, and I admire her for that."

"Admire?" she laughed. "Oh. I thought you loved 'er."

Flea stepped from the wall and right into her personal space, his jaw square as he looked up at the taller woman. "One thing I'd forgotten about you, Porthos, is what an idiot you are."

And suddenly he was kissing her, arms wrapped around her, pulling her close. Porthos didn't even try and fight it. Even as she knew she shouldn't, Charon was shot in just the other room. But it was Flea. She could never resist the man. One of the few people she could give herself fully to and didn't push her away.

* * *

After having agreed upon another course of action, the trio, feeling the keen absence of their fourth, left the tavern and inn, and staked out the church after dark until they wouldn't be sighted, and broke in.

"Am I the only one that thinks this is a little bit weird and creepy?" d'Artagnan whispered quietly as the snuck through the benches.

"If you think this is weird and creepy, then you are still innocent yet, Charlie." Aramis mused.

"Cut it." Athos hissed to the pair as they came to a halt at the wooden door behind the podium. "Try that key again." She instructed the Gascon.

He had nearly forgotten he still had the thing. He wasn't expecting much, starting to think that it might just be a memento to the dead man or something, and sending them on a endless chase—but he slipped the key into the lock and turned it. The tumblers inside the lock moving sounded deafening and he grimaced.

"I can't believe that worked." He muttered.

"Believe it," Athos quipped.

They grabbed three lanterns, lighting them and filed down the stone stairs into the shadows, until finally, the reached the room of a dirt cellar. A thing that was immediately noticeable was a machine in the middle of the floor, a contraption that the Gascon had no idea was.

"A bomb-making factory?" was his first thought.

But Aramis shook her head. "No." Her fingers traced over some of the gears on the machine. "A printing press."

"Hey." He approached the shelf that stood on the other end of the cellar, stocked full with small, wooden kegs.

Aramis turned from the printer, and came next to the young man. Picking a barrel at random, she pulled the stopper from one and black liquid started to glug out. "It's ink."

"Not this one." On her other side, Athos did the same to a keg on the other side of the shelf, but this time, black powder started to pour out. "Here's the gunpowder we've been looking for."

Aramis' brows furrowed in thought at the implications.

"What are you doing here?" Pastor Ferrand demanded from behind them; in one hand, a lantern, in the other, a sword.

The three spun and instantly drew their own rapiers in such a smooth motion that the metal sung from their scabbards.

"There are three of us, Pastor." Athos felt inclined to point out.

"Then you are outnumbered," the man countered, "I have God on my side."

"Oh, I do hope he's good with a sword." d'Artangna responded sarcastically.

"You lied to us." Aramis said. "You were in a conspiracy with Jean de Mauvoisin."

"Conspiracy?" Ferrand shook his head in denial. "I have a large congregation. The printing press is the only way I can stay in touch with them."

There was a tense moment, and then Athos lowered her sword. The other two followed suit and the Pastor a minute after.

"Do you use gunpowder instead of ink?" Athos wondered.

"No." Ferrand shook his head. "As you can see, I use _ink_. Please." He gestured to the shelf behind the trio. "It's very hard to come by."

Athos nodded and allowed the man passed and to recork the two kegs. After, they convened upstairs, and Athos outlined clearly where the man stood in her regards to this matter.

"As God as my witness," Ferrand said, seated upon one of the benches that lined the back wall, Aramis and d'Artagnan on the next bench over, and Athos standing in front of him. "This was nothing to do with me or my church. I preach reconciliation— _not_ hatred."

"Someone intended to blow up your church," Aramis said. "Probably during service."

"Catholics?"

Her expression turned bland. "Is it possible Jean was lying to you about his beliefs, that he infiltrated your church in order to destroy it?"

The Pastor scoffed and shook his head. "Jean was no turncoat and he was a gentle, soft-hearted boy— _not_ an assassin."

Athos sighed. "Then why did he need a dozen barrels of gunpowder?" She held out the receipt to the man, the one that d'Artagnan had discovered in the dead's office.

After a moment, Ferrand took the paper from her and read it over. He exhaled in understanding and nodded. "This is Jean's name." He agreed. "But it's not his handwriting." He handed the paper back.

Athos folded it and tucked it in the inside of her black doublet as she shared an annoyed look with Aramis and d'Artagnan.

Oh, the time for bullshit was over and done with. Athos was sick of the slick words given to her by that man, masked in the fluidity of grief over his son—that may or may not even be there.

* * *

Porthos could feel Flea's breath brush lightly against the back of her neck, feel his tight body pressed along her back, long missed. She knew she must be a bitch, at least, sleeping with Flea when he was with Charon now, who not two hours ago, had been shot. But she couldn't bring herself to feel much guilt. She and Flea had an old connection, it couldn't be denied.

Flea laced his fingers with hers, his arm curving around her bare hip, his nose pressed against a recent scar on the back of her right shoulder.

"Why do you do it?" he murmured, his lips brushing against the scar.

"Do what?" she shivered.

"Throw yourself into harm?"

Porthos chuckled. "You're exactly th' same."

"I'm not the one that goes gallivanting around Paris, bare knuckling." Flea protested.

Porthos twisted her head around and gave him a arch look. "Gallivantin'? D'you even know me at all, man? I dance like a master." Silence lapse between as they looked at each other, and it was filled with tension. Porthos turned onto her back and looked at him, leaning up on his elbow on his side. "What's with you lately?"

"Lately?" he scoffed. "You haven't been around long enough to have a lately with me."

"Flea—"

"I'm still angry that you left!" he burst out.

She gazed at him. "When I got out of 'ere, I was goin' to stay out. If I came back, I was afraid that the Court would drag me back in. That once I laid eyes on you again, I wouldna want leave. So I wasn't goin' to come back here, not even if it killed me."

"You say that, but every year you go to the Wren on your birthday."

Porthos raised a brow at her. "'Ow do you know that?"

"Because we'd always go their together than too, even without the coin… and I's spot you sometimes."

She smiled. "I said you loved me, didn't I?" Flea rolled his eyes, but his expression had softness flowing through it, before it melted away. "You could 'ave told me 'ow you felt."

"Like I said, you're a complete fool. Why do you think I tell you what to do all the time? How have you survived this long out there without me, is a mystery."

Porthos grinned. "I found others t' do that for me now."

"A lot of good they've done." He deadpanned.

Porthos sighed. "Things 'appen. That's the way life goes, Flea. You know that."

"Yeah, I know that." He pushed himself up away from her and threw his legs over the side of the bed.

Porthos turned onto her side and watched him. She knew she'd never be able to see him like this again. It was their goodbye

"Haven't I told you, watch where you lay your eyes?" he mused, pulling on his braies.

"An' don't you know, I 'ave selective learning?"

"Charon can't know about this." He said seriously, turning to her. "I don't want to hurt her. You know how she can get."

Porthos sighed. "Hmm." She nodded.

"After tomorrow, you'll be gone. This was nothing more than a goodbye, Porthos. I mean it." He finished dressing.

"I know… You can always come with me." She was only half-joking, but Flea wasn't amused.

"We're from too different worlds, Porthos. On different paths. You know it would never work."

"So this was nostalgia, then, was it?"

"Maybe." He whispered, and left.

She watched as the sheets fell back into place and covered the blank doorway. Porthos groaned and laid back down, snuggling under the covers that smelt of Flea and of her, of them together. She stared up at the cracked ceiling for what felt like a long time. Tomorrow, she would leave this place behind her once again—one way or another.

Eventually, she fell asleep.

* * *

Charon sat in the main chamber, her throne room—on her throne. It was nearing morning, and the time was ticking down until her plan was to be kicked into action. She couldn't sleep. It wasn't just the pain in her arm, for which she nursed a bottle of wine for, but the anxiety... the anticipation she felt.

She'd throw the celebration like she'd told Porthos, and then, while she and Flea went to see the woman off, that was when it would happen. Yeah. It was as simple as that, there was nothing else. And then she'd finally be free, she'd finally be able to be something.

* * *

It was coming dawn and Porthos was on the cusp of asleep-and-awakening, when it came to her like a dream.

 _Thunder crashed, and like always, the rain was heavy in Paris. She pushed herself up from the table. She must've passed-out. And grabbed the bottle and its remaining dregs and headed for the door. Heading through the rain, and back to the garrison. She didn't get very far, cutting through an alley and stopped in confusion at the boy lying on the ground, and the man kneeling next to it with a pistol in his hand._

* * *

When the valet answered the door to his Master's chateau that morning, it was to two intense women, a lad, and three sword-points directed at him, forcing him back into the house. He had no other choice by to comply. He might be able to take out one, perhaps injury another before they took him down, but that wasn't completely the reason. If they already didn't know, then making a move would put them on the scent.

They forced him back into Emile de Mauvoisin's office, a dagger now at his throat, and ordered him to unlock it. He told them truthfully that he didn't have a key, de Mauvoisin was the only one. In the end, it didn't matter, because Aramis forced the cabinet's doors open with a dagger.

d'Artagnan kept an eye on the valet, but he didn't believe the man was much a threat to them, while Aramis went through the scrolls and documents in the cabinet and Athos sat at the man's desk, going through the ledger.

"Treville needs to see this." She remarked, and with a nod, d'Artagnan left to do just that.

* * *

When Porthos awoke next, it was morning, and Flea hadn't returned. She could hear the celebration that Charon had spoken of the night before. She wasn't exactly sure how Charon intended to get her out of Paris, but decided that when she found the woman, she wasn't going to lie. Why go through the charade? It was just a waste of her time, time that she could use to find Athos and Aramis and d'Artagnan.

She needed to know what was going on. What had they figured out? Why hadn't they come to see her?

She could have stayed in that bed for hours longer. It wasn't the most comfortable, but that wasn't what tied her. It was being surrounded by Flea's scent, and his warmth, and his touch. Flea, who had only been the one able to make the Court feel like it could be a home instead of a prison.

She hadn't left the building since she'd been dragged here, dazed and hooded the previous morning. It was this place, separate from the real world. Looking, seeing, admiring, but only at a distance, never allowed to touch or experience or live. The only thing that could keep Porthos tethered to this place, was Flea. It had always been Flea. She knew, that that day she had left, if Flea had begged her to stay, she would have.

She forced herself from under the warmth of the blankets, and naked into the cool morning air. She did her ablution via the water in the basin, and dressed in her braies, breaches and boots, put on her soft corset and fresh shirtsleeves that Flea had left her, and the tan tunic from the night before. Her neck and right shoulder were left bare.

She didn't have sex as frequent and as free as Aramis. She liked woman, saw nothing wrong with them, but she didn't love them. She wasn't into women like that, how Aramis was. She loved men. The way they could make her feel small, but not in a belittling way. How they could make her feel small in a delicate way.

Flea was the only man she had been ever able to let her defences go down complete and fully. She had yet to find that connection with any other man. Sure, she needed those nights where it was just fiery passion, screaming-forget-the-world kind of sex. But she always had that little dream that every woman did, to find a man, to settle down, to have love and acceptance. She had most that with Flea, but he had been right, they just wanted too different a-thing.

The back of her neck felt naked and exposed with out her braid and the short collar of the tunic. Her shoulder felt too loose and light, vulnerable without her pauldron. She sighed, her fingers grazing the cut on the back of her neck, even as her other grasped her right shoulder.

She wouldn't feel right in her skin until she at least got the latter one back and where it belonged.

She saw one of Flea's bandanas on the table, and picked it up. She inhaled. It carried his scent still. She tied it around her forehead and knotted it at the base of her neck, tying her short locks out of her face.

And taking a deep breath, Porthos headed for the door.

Though the hour was early, people were drinking freely, and already drunk. Unfamiliar with the layout, and the push of incoherent people, she became lost in her surroundings, and then frustration when she tried to ask where the main chamber was located and just got laughs and hoots in answer. She started to grow frustrated, trying every room, flinging aside curtains when there wasn't any door, and forced away when every time she did find a door, they seemed to be locked.

She found herself in a deserted corridor and flung aside the hanging curtains at the end, intending to duck through the doorway, but instead, came face-to-face with a stack of kegs. If it weren't for the fuses stuffed in the cork holes, she would have thought nothing of it. Instead, her eyes widened, and now her need to find Charon and Flea was an all the more urgent and concerning one.

She got completely turned around, and it was only by luck that she reached the familiar hall that led to Flea's room, and heard the raised voices of both the parties she was in search of.

The air was tense when she flung back the curtain, and they whipped around to stare at her. She ignored it, their domestic dispute would have to wait. "There's somethin' you need to see, th' both of you."

* * *

Retrieved from the garrison by d'Artagnan, with news, Treville now stood with two-thirds of his best at Emile de Mauvoisin's house, flipping through his ledger, and a bit baffled by the read.

"All of these are for houses inside the Court of Miracles." He remarked to the pair on either side of him, and Athos standing at the other side of the desk in the office. "All bought for a pittance within the last few months—hundreds of them.

Aramis' gaze skimmed over the contents of the pages in her hands, her brow furrowed. "But no rents have been paid in the Court for decades." She slapped the pages down onto the desk. "Why buy something that's worthless?"

The valet stood tense in the doorway, his expression in shadow. He heard the front door and knew de Mauvoisin returning from his update meeting with the Cardinal. He met the man in the hall, and after a brief explanation of the Musketeers in his office, de Mauvoisin gave him the go-ahead to work the plan. By the time the Musketeers realized what was happening, it would be too late.

"The land these houses occupy, covers most of the Court." Treville's fingers tapped the pages. "The paper value is immense... if there is a way to make them pay it."

"A business mind like yours, Captain Treville, is wasted in the Musketeers." de Mauvoisin said as he walked into his office, cool as a cucumber. The four turned to face him. He stopped in equal space between them and the door. "You're right. If the Court wasn't there, that land would be worth a King's ransom. Who knows when it might prove a wise investment?" He paused. "And, shall I say, this search is illegal. I suggest you leave before I inform the Cardinal."

Treville silently seethed. He didn't have the entire picture quite yet, but already he knew this was only the kind of scheme that had the Cardinal's greasy fingerprints all over it.

None moved to exit, and instead, Athos came around the desk to stand with the others, and held up the gunpowder receipt. "Did you forge your son's signature?" de Mauvoisin shifted uncomfortably. She nodded in acknowledgement the shift confirmed. "It's a simple matter to compare the two signatures. I'll ask you again. Is this your signature?"

There was a pregnant pause.

"Yes." de Mauvoisin admitted.

Treville shook his head and took a few steps towards the man. "Acquiring gunpowder without a valid license is an act of sedition punishable by death."

Aramis stepped beside her Captain and admitted to the man in front of her, "At first we thought this was about attacking Protestants—the fanatical convert proving his loyalty to a Catholic King."

"But it never had anything to do with religion, did it?" Treville stated, "This was about greed, pure and simple. With the Cardinal involved, just as you've admitted, there is nothing else for it."

Athos handed the receipt over to Treville for further safe-keeping. "You're planning to destroy the Court of Miracles."

"And you must of had someone on the inside," d'Artagnan continued the thought, standing on Treville's other side. "No one could have moved that amount of gunpowder into the Court if they didn't belong—someone would have been seen."

Treville stared. "When is this plan to be executed?"

de Mauvoisin stared right back. He hadn't expected to be found out this quickly, if at all. But there was nothing to do for it now. "At Midday."

The three looked at Treville, wound tight in an instant, and he quickly nodded, and they rushed from the room and to the Court, praying they weren't too late.

"You're too late." de Mauvoisin told Treville. "My men are already at the Court."

Treville narrowed his dusk-coloured eyes. "My Musketeers aren't to be underestimated."

* * *

Porthos managed to lead the tense pair back to the deserted corridor that she had discovered, a re-revealed the kegs of armed gunpowder. Flea stood next to her, but Charon stayed several feet behind them, stiff.

"Gunpowder?" Flea gasped looking at something that looked to be so harmless, but in truth, could wreck devastation.

"Yeah, the fuses have all been primed. Someone's goin' to blow this place to 'ell."

"But why?" Porthos could only shrug in answer. "The Cardinal?"

"Perhaps." This seemed like a thing that scum would do, blow up a bunch of innocent people, for whatever reason.

Flea was horrified. "But there are hundreds of people living here—women, children..."

"There's somethin' else, Charon." Porthos turned to the woman behind her, who still yet had to say anything. "I didn't kill that boy—when I left the Wren, 'e was already dead. Found 'im in the alley, the killer was standin' over him."

 _Not registering the danger, her mind drunk. She reached for the man's shoulder, grabbing it. He stood and slowly turned towards her... (de Mauvoisin)._

"When I find out who the old man was, I can prove my innocence." She continued, "I can't leave now. Not when I'm this close to findin' the truth." But Charon didn't appear to be as relieved as her; though she put it off to the shock of the gunpowder. "Let's get these fuses cut, make th' gunpowder safe." She crouched down in front of the kegs, Flea nodded and bent down beside her.

Her heart hammering in her chest, Charon saw no other choice. She couldn't let Porthos interfere any longer. She pulled her pistol and cocked the weapon. "Step away."

Porthos stilled and after a moment, stood, slowly turning around to see Charon pointing a pistol at her.

"Charon?" Flea stood and looked at her on confusion. "What are you doing?"

Charon ignored him and stared at Porthos. "You were at the wrong place, at the wrong time, Porthos—Why did you have to go back to the Wren? Why do you always have to mess everything up? The old man argued with his son. He shot him... and there you were," she shrugged. "The perfect scapegoat."

 _... Charon came up behind the woman, and struck her over the back of the head. Porthos dropped, her eyes rolling into the back of her head._

No wonder her head had throbbed so painfully. Not only had she been dealing with a hangover, but a light concussion as well. She had enough experience with them, that she should have realized, no matter how much alcohol she had consumed.

"So, why save me then?" Porthos asked.

"We ran these streets together. So much changes. Everything becomes... complicated and compromised—but not that. Not sisterhood. Loyalty. Well, I couldn't leave you to be beheaded. Flea insisted—like you, I always did what he asks."

"But what does gunpowder have to do with it?" Flea asked in confusion.

"The old man—de something—bought up all the land in here." Charon said. "He's paid me to smuggle in the gunpowder." Flea gasped. "There's more after the job's done—a lot more."

He paled considerably in realization and complete horror at her confession. " _This_ is why you wanted me to pack a bag, why we had to leave so suddenly and fast? Oh my God! The expensive drink, the _celebration_ —"

"Why not give them a good time before they go?"

Porthos growled and made for him, "You were goin' to blow this place up?" but she was held a bay as Charon raised the gun at her.

"I deserve better than this, Flea." Charon told the sick man. "Why did Porthos get to leave, and not me? Why was she able to free herself of this dung heap? It wasn't fair. I just need a bit more money, a fair chance like everyone else!"

"But this is our home!" Flea found his voice again.

"I'm sick of it." Charon scoffed and turned away and started to pace. "The... the dirt! The disease! The poverty! Human beings rooting in filth like animals! It's no way to live."

"They're just poor, is all!" He said. "It's not there fault."

"The Court is finished!" She spun back, the gun raised, directed at him. He baulked. "The people here are doomed, they were from the start—they're just took simple to realize it. I don't want to leave you here, Flea. Come with me." She insisted.

"What makes you think I would go anywhere with you? After this... you're a monster! A murderer! A terrorist! No! I'm not going anywhere with you, Charon."

Charon narrowed her eyes. "Last chance," and she pointed the gun towards Porthos. "Her or me."

"That's not a choice!" He shook his head.

"I didn't save Porthos, just so she could steal you away from me! She had her chance, and kicked you aside. She never cared for you like I do, Flea. She's not like us."

"And I'm nothing like you!" Flea said forcefully. "But if you ever loved me like you say, then stop this nonsense right now." He glanced at Porthos.

"You always loved her. I was just all that was left," she whispered and gave him a pained look. "I knew it! I knew, but I'd hoped, that if enough time passed, you might start to see me the way you saw her after she abandoned us. I thought that you would see I was better for you—but you never stopped loving her, did you, Flea?"

"No!" he screamed as Charon pointed the gun back at Porthos, and her intention was clear. He didn't think, just reacted and grabbed the gun, jerking it from Porthos and towards himself.

He cried out in pain and dropped in shock as it fired. Charon dropped the pistol and ran.

Porthos fell to her knees at his side. "Flea!"

Flea gasped through gritted teeth, clutching at his shoulder, blood swelling between his fingers. "Go. Go. I'll be fine." She insisted, when Porthos looked inclined to stay.

Porthos nodded and ran after Charon, thunder in her voice as she screamed her name.

* * *

The valet lit his torch in the Court from the flame burning in the stand, and pulled his mask over his face. He addressed the four men in front of him similarly masked.

"I'll light the fuses. Keep guard and kill anyone that gets in our way."

* * *

Athos, Aramis, and d'Artagnan had rode their horses hard through the streets of Paris, to the Court of Miracles. The streets were quiet, all but empty; Aramis had never seen the likes of it before.

They heard gunshots and screams, and hurried their pace.

"de Mauvosin's men!" Athos shouted, spotting the only masked men through the people that started to run through the streets, away from the gunfire. "Get them!"

A masked turned and fired. Athos was only saved by an innocent running passed and getting hit. She returned fire and killed the man. d'Artagnan spent his own pistol, killing another mask, and the three of them rushed down the street after the remaining.

"They mustn't get to the gunpowder!" Athos shouted and ran into the building that she had previously secreted into in search of Porthos, after the leader.

Aramis set her sights on a masked man, torch in hand, rushing to climb the ladder of some scaffolding. She took a knee and blew the fuse to her harquebus as she aimed. She allowed the flicker of a smirk twitch grimly at the corner of her mouth before she fired. The man cried out as the ball buried itself in the meat of his arse, and he fell from the ladder, back to the ground.

Aramis clipped the long weapon onto the right side of her belt, and knelt beside him. She ripped his mask off. "Where is Porthos?" she demanded, grabbing the front of his shirt. But his only response was incoherent groaning. "Where is she?" She spat, even as she grabbed the man's head and angrily slammed it into the ground until he whimpered.

d'Artagnan followed the last mask into the same building that Athos had the leader, but his man headed down. As he rushed down the stair, the Gascon dove for him, tackling him down the stair and to the ground. d'Artagnan jumped back as the man scrambled to his feet, yanking off his mask. Their swords sung from their scabbards.

"I'm gonna kill ya jus' like all th' otha garbage in this place!" the man laughed as he swung at d'Artagnan.

His strikes were fast and furious, and left the young man no chance to respond, sparks flying in the air between them. The man thrust and d'Artagnan mirrored the motion, twirling their blades together and locking them. He kicked the man's leg out from under him. The man came up swinging a moment later, he blocked, and grabbed the other's sword hand and d'Artagnan's sword pierced his stomach before he could make another move. The man let out a quiet groan as d'Artagnan released his arm and he fell back into the dirt.

"It looks like you're the only garbage dying here tonight." He said and ran back up the stairs to find whomever he might first; Athos, Aramis, or Porthos.

Athos saw the valet walking down the dead-end corridor with his lit torch towards the piled kegs of gunpowder, and the injured man on the ground edging out of his way.

"Hey!" Athos shouted from the end of the hall.

He spun around to face her and she rushed at him, her sword out and tossing her hat aside. He swung at her with the torch, she dodged and jabbed. He jumped aside. Sword and torch connected and locked, embers flew into Athos face, blinding her (his mask protecting him). He took advantage and kicked her shin, making her knee give for a second before locking and he punched her the side of the head. He jumped back, back towards the barrels, and Athos charged him. She swung and he had no choice but to block her. She grabbed the wrist holding the torch, and forced them to change standing, moving him from the gunpowder. She shoved him against the wall with her shoulder, shoving back against him and was forced to release her sword to keep a hold on his torch-hand, but she had to hold off when his free-hand grasped the side of her face. She winced as she felt him nails gouge her skin, and squeezed her eye shut, grabbing his wrist.

She forced her head back, and he grunted at the assault of her skull to his nose; but she didn't receive the satisfying crunch of broken cartilage. He continued to claw her face, but his grip released the torch and it clattered to the floor. Still lit, it rolled in a half circle, gaining ground towards the wired fuse that snaked on the ground.

Flea's eyes widened and his foot shot out, kicking the torch away from the fuse and back towards the struggling Athos and valet. He released his hold on his shoulder wound, and dragged himself to the bucket of water nearby. He shoved it over and water sloshed across the floor, reaching the pairs entangled feet, and the torch. It sizzled and smoked at the contact, but went out.

The valet cursed in Athos ear, and without the worry of the gunpowder being lit, she suddenly became dead weight and dropped from his hold. She drove her elbow into his sternum, forcing the air from his lungs and him to double over. She grabbed his head and flipped him over her shoulder and onto his back. She wrapped arms around his throat and put him into a chokehold. He grabbed at her, his feet kicking, but she leaned her face back out of his reach. His fingers caught in the ends on her loose hair, but his yanks were weak, and then stopped all together when she crushed his windpipe.

She slumped back against the wall, breathing heavily, the dead man in her lap, giving herself a moment to recover. Finally, she shoved the man from her lap, and gathered her sword, flipping the tangles hair from her face. Before she stood though, she removed his mask and recognized the valet from de Mauvoisin's residence. It made sense. He would want to use his own men. She double checked that the torch was out and no threat, before she went over to the injured blond man.

"Are you alright?" she questioned, noting the bloody wound on his shoulder.

"I'm fine." He shook off her assistance. "Porthos," he said, his eyes flickering to her pauldron. "She followed Charon to the main chamber." And he gave her directions. "Save Porthos!"

Athos nodded and rushed back down the hall, passed the dead valet and grabbed her hat again in passing. Tucking her hair out of the way, and pressing it down on her head.

Aramis ran into the building after the others, rushed into ever room she came across, down every hall she saw, but found neither masked man or Porthos. But she ran into d'Artagnan, and together, they searched for their two missing friends.

By chance, they happened across Athos, who was in a rush herself. "Porthos! This way!"

* * *

Charon stood in the main chamber, her throne room. The place where she had ruled the Court. She guessed that it was the only place for this to end, one way or another. She was passed going back. Not after she shot Flea. It was here where Porthos found her.

"Welcome to my Empire of Dust," she spread her arms wide, her back to the other woman, her voice rough with emotion. "Flea loves this place. I could never understand it. Who would settle for a place like this? You didn't. Why should I have to?"

"You should 'ave come with me all those years ago, Charon." Porthos said softly.

"I wanted to! I wanted from this place so bad. But you never asked me, did you? You asked Flea!" Charon spun around towards her, a knife in her hand. "But when he refused, I stayed... I stayed because I thought that he would finally see that you weren't worth it—that he would finally see me, be mine." Porthos carefully circled her, her arms up lightly, Charon mirrored her. "But he never was. Not really."

Porthos narrowed her eyes. "You say you love Flea? You shot 'im," her arm shot out in the direction of the door, "And just ran away like a coward!"

"I'm not a coward!" Charon screamed and slashed at her.

Porthos jumped back and sneered at her. "I don't want to fight you, Charon. Leave now, and I won't come lookin'—I won't come an' kill you."

Charon spat at her. "I hate you!" she leapt at the woman, coming with a overhead, downward stab.

Porthos grabbed her wrists and spun them around and around, lifting the smaller woman off her feet. Charon strained and managed to tuck her knees into her chest and stomped the taller woman in the stomach, forcing her to let go. Charon was sent tumbling but managed to keep a hold of the knife and Porthos fell to the ground. Porthos jumped back to her feet with a grimace; Charon was a bit slower to get to her feet.

"You had to have everything. You couldn't let me have one thing. Even gone, Flea was still yours. I'd sit here, in this room, it that chair!" her knife stabbed towards the throne, "And I wasn't happy, not for a second, because all I could think about was how you got out and I was stuck here in this dung heap of hell."

"People like you make me sick." Porthos told her as they went back to circling like wolves. "You think the world is just goin' to roll over for you? Because it won't! That's not 'ow life works. You're born in th' dirt, you get shit thrown at you every second—and you, Charon, you jus' laid back and sulked, but I fought back, I threw the shit back at it and I got out of this place... I made somethin' of myself. I became better than my circumstance."

And Porthos punched her, with a strength that forced her to the floor. But Charon came back up swinging and stabbing with a shriek on her lips. Porthos dodged out of the way, and grabbed Charon's wrist, wrenching the knife from her grasp. She punched the woman straight on, making her stumble back, and then hit her again, kicking her feet from under her and forcing her onto her back. Porthos sat on her chest, the knife straining to get at her throat.

Charon gritting her teeth, fighting to hold the knife from her throat. She could see the anger and deathly threat in the dark eyes above her, and felt a true fear inside of her.

But just as suddenly, it was gone and there was just weariness. Porthos pulled back and stood, staring down at the gasping woman. "I'm not like you, Charon." She shook her head and tossed the knife down. "That's why I left." She turned and headed for the door. "I'm a Musketeer."

Charon's eyes alight with anger and she snarled, grabbing the knife and pushing to her feet.

"Porthos!" Aramis called in relief as they three rounded the corner and finally found their missing sister.

Porthos' eyes lit up as she saw them and didn't have time to register it as Aramis' eyes widened.

"Look out!" she cried, Charon coming at the dark-skinned woman from behind with the knife, and she just reacted. It was instinct, as Aramis' sword left its scabbard and buried itself in Charon's stomach.

"Charon!" Porthos grabbed her friend and held her, lowering her to the ground, just as the Spaniard had done Marsac.

Aramis fought the sick as the realization of what she had done, of who she had just killed, struck her. Porthos didn't talk of her time in the Court often, but Aramis and Athos had been the two souls that she allowed that part of herself. Sometime, she would speak of Charon, her closest friend and confidant in the Court, next to Flea.

"I... I told you, Porthos." Charon gasped, gazing up at the woman, blood leaking from the corner of her mouth. "I told you I was get... Getting out."

And Porthos watched through tears as the light left the woman's eyes and she stilled in death. She bowed her head, her hand over the woman's still heart.

"Porthos," Aramis gasped, her sword dropped to the ground with a clatter. d'Artagnan put a hand on her back in concern. Porthos looked back at her, tears marking her face, and Aramis was simply horrified with herself.

Flea stumbled around the corner, grasping his shoulder. His view blocked by Athos, Aramis, and d'Artagnan. "Porthos?" he called, and Athos glanced behind her at the man, a formal look on her face and stepped aside. Flea came forward and he moaned at the sight in front of him. "Charon!" he gasped. "Charon..." he dropped on the other side of the woman, tears filling his green eyes. He reached out with a shaky hand and laid it over Porthos' laying over Charon's heart.

* * *

While Athos, Aramis and d'Artagnan were saving the unknowing people of the Court from a horrifying outcome and re-establishing contact with Porthos, Treville had been making some discoveries and decisions of his own regarding Emile de Mauvoisin.

At the current moment, he stood just outside the man's office double doors in the hall, the pistol missing from his belt, and de Mauvoisin's written and signed confession on the death of his son, the purchase of the gunpowder with a forged signature and the events transpiring the destruction of the Court of Miracles.

For which he knew his Inseparables had negated, for Paris wasn't in complete chaos over the massive explosion and deaths mounted inside the hundreds. When the explosion didn't happen at midday, it had sealed de Mauvoisin's fait.

Treville couldn't help the flinch that the sound of the gunshot from inside the office ensued. The signed and sealed confession that de Mauvoisin had given him would be more than enough to exonerate the charges against Porthos. He saw no reason why not to give the man the choice of how he died, seeing as he would have been sentenced to hang when the King charged him for his crimes.

* * *

They eventually had to move to move Charon's body from the hall, and into the main chamber. Aramis had gathered herself enough to treat the through-and-through bullet wound of Flea's shoulder, her fingers shaking lightly as she threaded the wound.

News of Charon's death slowly spread through the Court. Of the shooting in the street, and the Musketeer invasion. But not of the gunpowder. Or the Cardinal's plot blow up the Court of Miracles, for which Charon had been deeply involved.

Neither Porthos nor Flea said anything, but it was clear for Athos to see, as they prepared Charon's body for burial, the two Musketeers and Gascon weren't welcome. And she and d'Artagnan had to usher Aramis out along with them.

Aramis was unable to form the words of regret that she felt, the sorrow that she was the cause of the similar pain she had felt when she was forced to choose between Treville and Marsac, and ended of having to kill the latter. She remembered the dying words he had whispered to her, same in meaning to the ones that Charon had gasped to Porthos.

No one bothered them as they made their way back to the entrance of the Court and their horses. They would wait for as long as they must for Porthos. They weren't going to leave her this time, even as they gave her her space.

* * *

Porthos walked slowly next to Flea after Charon's funeral, the silence between them filled with loss and acceptance.

"Are you goin' to be alright?" Porthos finally asked, pausing and touching his arm.

Flea turned to him. "I'll survive." He said honestly.

"Hmm." Porthos nodded. "Charon, um.. She didn't want to kill you, you know that, right? She loved you."

"Not me," he agreed, "But she wanted to kill you."

"She was just angry—"

A look of thunder crossed his handsome face. "This was beyond anger! She went mad! She—"

"It's this place, Flea." Porthos grasped his uninjured shoulder. "It'll either make you strong, or it'll break you. It broke 'er, is all. I'm not angry, just... sad. That I couldn't help 'er, that I drove 'er over the edge."

"That's no excuse!" he protested. "Charon was going to destroy my home, she was going to kill hundreds of people. And for what? Money?" he shook his head vehemently. "She crossed the line on so many levels."

"She jus' wanted to be free of the Court, and saw this as 'er only option."

"There's nothing wrong with the Court." He insisted. "Why couldn't either of you ever see that? It's more than just criminals—families live here, it's a community."

"I know—I know, an' that's why you're meant to sit in that chair and not Charon." Porthos said. She sighed. "The Cardinal isn't goin' to stop, 'e'll keep tryin' until he destroys your world."

"And the same can't be said about yours?" Flea asked with a raised brow and Porthos could only nod in agreement, and then shrug. "So let's enjoy them while we have them." He said quietly.

"Spoken like a true survivor." She murmured.

"Porthos..." he gazed up at the woman. It never bothered her that Porthos was taller than her.

"I never stopped lovin' you, Flea." She confessed. "I never forgot 'bout you." Her thumb brushed across the shadow on his chin.

"I know." He whispered. "Me, too." And he leaned in close, giving the woman a deep and slow kiss, imparting on the woman the exact truth of her words. "Goodbye, Porthos." He murmured, pulling away and walking back into the belly of the Court of Miracles.

Porthos exhaled and opened her eyes, turning to look after the man and watch him appreciatively.

"Watch where you lay those eyes," he smiled, knowing without turning. "They'll get you of trouble one of these days!"

"Take care of yourself, Flea!" She called after him, grinning softly.

"You're the one causing all the trouble, Musketeer." He mused, holding his hand aloft to her as he turned the corner.

Porthos sighed and continued to gaze into the Court of Miracles. This was where she'd grown up. This was where she learned that you couldn't survive in the world on your own, that you had to surround yourself by people that you loved and trusted. She'd found that here, and she'd found that outside, in Aramis and Athos and Treville and now d'Artagnan. She turned her back and walked into the opposite direction, back towards where she knew her family would be waiting.

Porthos saw Aramis pacing the entrance of the Court and jerked to a stop when she spotted the dark-skinned woman. She took several steps towards her, but then abruptly came to a stop, unsure of the woman's reaction.

Porthos' stride didn't stop until she was in front of the Spaniard. She knew that Aramis was blaming herself, aghast and horrified for killing Charon, but Porthos didn't blame her. She knew the woman was remembering what had happened with Marsac not too long ago and it had brung up old heartaches.

"I—"

Pothos pulled her into a hug, holding the woman who had saved her life in more ways than one, and on many occasion. Who had been nothing but a true friend and sister to her.

"Charon knew what would 'appen—just like Marsac, Aramis." Porthos whispered in the woman's ear. "You can't blame yourself for either, like I know I can't. They made their choices an' we made ours."

"Mm-hmm." Aramis nodded, and squeezed the woman tightly, the restriction around her heart easing for the first time since news of Porthos' imprisonment had reached the garrison yesterday morning.

They parted, but Porthos kept an arm around her shoulder and kept her close.

"It's good to see you, Porthos!" d'Artagnan gasped.

Athos gave her a solemn nod that conveyed all she needed to say, and Porthos returned it.

"I couldn't very well leave you, 'ow would you ever cope?" she remarked, sparking quiet smiles from the others. "Be honest," she paused seriously, looking at each of them in turn. "Did any of you think I did it?"

Aramis and Athos both glanced over at d'Artagnan. He hung his head for a brief moment and swallowed before he rose it again and looked at her resolutely. It was true what Aramis had said, he did owe the woman an apology. He had doubted her, and that was unacceptable.

"Porthos—"

"Mm." Porthos shook her head and waved her hand. "It's okay. I... I thought I did it for a while, too."

"Still—I'm sorry."

Porthos nodded. And turned her gaze to Athos. "What 'bout you?"

Athos raised a surprised brow. "Me?"

Pothos nodded. "Yeah, I mean—did you get into a fight with a kitten, or what?" she indicated the scratches on Athos' face.

d'Artagnan snorted with laughter, and a surprised sputter left Aramis, and Porthos gave them a soft grin.

The Comtesse pursed her lips in response, but there was vague amusement in her blue eyes. Athos was fine being the butt of the joke, so long as it helped mend the injured air amongst her sisters and brother.

She turned from the three and to her horse, opening her saddlebag. "In honour of your glorious return, Porthos," she said, "We have a present for you."

"Really?" Porthos smiled. "You know 'ow I love some free stuff!"

Aramis smiled. "Then you're definitely going to love this."

"Presenting!" d'Artagnan said dramatically, waving his arms as Athos turned. "You're very own Musketeer pauldorn!"

"Jus' what I always wanted!" Porthos gasped dramatically. She presented her shoulder and allowed Athos to strap the shoulder guard over her studded doublet. "Thanks," she said seriously. "I'm 'ome." She declared, fist thumping her shoulder. "Let's get the 'ell out of here," she urged them along, Athos and d'Artagnan getting the tethers for the horses. They left the Court of Miracles and into the streets of Paris. She grinned mischievously at Aramis at her side. "I 'ave a sudden cravin' for melon."

The look Aramis gave her was positively sour and she burst out laughing.

* * *

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

 _Writing this chapter, I realized that what I had mistaken for a braid on Porthos, was in fact just the braided tail of his bandana. So in what I hope is an interesting turn, I had the judge sentence Porthos to beheading publicly, and had the Red Guard cut the braid off, giving it a little back-story._

 _I gender-bended Charon and Flea, who were male and female respectively originally, but keeping to my Porthos-is-straight motif, I changed them around. I had such a hard time writing Flea as a man. I guess it was because of how Flea was as a female in the episode, the way she spoke and acted, it was hard to write Flea as a man, and not having him seem weak and feminine. I'm not sure how I did. I also had a severe block when trying to write the scene between Porthos and Flea after they slept with each other. So I left to the very end, but I'm still not quite happy with the way it turned out._

y


	6. Pursuit 6: The Exiles

**a/n:** **Disclaimer: I do not own The Musketeers, just going to borrow them and their adventures for a bit.** **No copyright infringement is intended; just some good old gender-bending!**

 **Please, feel free to check out my one-shot "Tresses" starring d'Artagnan and his Angels! Yes... I am free promoting myself. :)**

 **Episode Tag:** _Season 1, Episode 6: The Exiles._

* * *

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

 **Charl(i)es' Angels!**  
 **Pursuit 6 :** _The Exiles_

d'Artagnan rode close beside Aramis on the borrowed garrison steed on the narrow road. It was odd, being on a mission that didn't include Athos and Porthos as well. But the King was out hunting and needed to have his guard there with him. That included every Musketeer that wasn't already out on assignment and even Treville himself. d'Artagnan was exempted because he wasn't a Musketeer yet, not until he got his commission from the King himself; and Aramis as well because the Cardinal and Treville sent her on this current mission.

"So, what do you think the Cardinal's interest is in this baby?" he asked.

"Hmm?" Aramis looked over at him.

"This baby—"

"All I know," Aramis stopped him, "Is it's our job to collect the infant and his mother and take them back to Paris." She gave him a gelled smile. "That's it."

"You really aren't curious?" he leaned over the side of his saddle and retrieved his canteen. "Why the Cardinal has such an interest in this baby? You don't think it could be his love-child or something?" he drank from the flask.

She let out a small bark of laughter at that. "His love-child? Really? That's the best you can come up with?" he seemed to take this questioned very serious, and she watched him for a few seconds in incredulously as he contemplated before she shook her head and waved her hand. "No. I have no interest. I've long since stopped trying to figure out the dark, spider webbed agendas and mind of Richelieu."

"Alright." He couldn't help but feel a bit disappointed by that, but he quickly moved on. "What about this priest, Duval? What does he have to do with all of this?" he gestured vaguely with the canteen in front of them and their destination. "No theory's on that either, I take it?"

"He was probably paid to look after them," she said, relenting just a little, but she would quickly clear this up. "There's one thing you need learn, Charlie," she told him, " _Don't get involved."_

"Really? It's just as simple as that?" he scoffed, taking a last drink of water before he screwed the cap back on and tucked the flask away. "Don't get involved."

Aramis nodded. "That's right."

d'Artagnan snorted and shook his head. "You're so romantic, Aramis, you make the Cardinal's heart bleed. It's a magical feat, seeing as he has a stone in his chest instead of a beating organ."

"Each soul that believes, strengthens my powers." Aramis said in a low voice. She smiled. "You're young yet, feverent, to understand quiet yet. But someday, hopefully very far from now—this life will put calluses on your heart, Charlie."

"Mm." He didn't look convinced.

"Have you met any number of the Musketeers at the garrison? Just because we have this pauldron, doesn't make us invincible, d'Artagnan. We all have our troubles, we all have our vices. Denial's a good one. You're planning to become a Musketeer, aren't you?" she waited for his nod before she continued. "Being a Musketeer mean's being a soldier. You follow orders, like now, and you don't question them—and if you do, you better damn make sure you don't regret the consequences." She was silent for a moment, and d'Artagnan watched her closely. "I love women and men. Porthos loves cards and the thrill of pulling one over on her opponent. And Athos—well, you know. And you know the things the others say about her."

"That's only because—" he stopped himself short before he could betray Athos' private secret that he had gleaned into by chance months ago when they had to escort Emile Bonnaire to see the King. Aramis raised a curious brow at him for his abrupt stop, and he rushed to finish with: "They don't know her like we do." Which was true also.

Now she was the one that didn't look convinced, but kept any questions she might of had to herself as the turned the bend in the road, and the church came into view. "You're in this life now, Charlie."

He glanced away. The light, joking tone had taken an unexpected turn into something that he wasn't prepared for. He wondered if he should try and ask the woman, but it would have to wait until later as they finally approached their destination.

They dismounted at the front of the church, and Aramis tethered the horses while d'Artagnan went in search of Duval.

"Father Duval?" he called through the open door, knocking. "Father—" His eyes landed on the collapsed curate on the floor. "Aramis!" he shouted. He knelt next to the man and checked him for breath that he already knew wasn't there. The blood was too much, still warm and flowing.

Aramis rushed through the door, spotting d'Artagnan next to the Father's body. "Aw." She removed her hat in respect.

"I think we found him." He said, and stood.

They were started into action by a woman's piercing scream for help and ran from the church, around back. Neither he, or Aramis spotted the true Father Duval hiding in the shadows beneath the stair, clutching a heavy records ledger for the church to his chest.

Aramis took in the scene before she even arrived. There were three men; one at the horses, one struggling with a red-haired woman Agnes, and another hurrying back to the horses, with a baby riding-basket strapped to his back. She unhooked her pistol from her belt as she ran, and aimed with a steady hand even as she jumped over a short stone wall and fired. The pistol ball hit her target struggling with the woman, and the man fell dead.

d'Artagnan was only a few step behind the woman, and turned his pistol towards the horses. A shot sounded that wasn't his own, and he yelped, the pistol flying from his grip and he was felled.

Aramis grabbed Agnes as she tried to run after the men as they turned horse and galloped down the rode with the screaming baby.

"No! Henry!" the woman screamed, struggling against Aramis' hold.

"Aramis!" d'Artagnan called, jumping back to his feet. She waved him on and he ran back out front and mounted his horse, returning out back to find that the woman was at least not fighting against Aramis and pacing the grass a few yards away.

"Follow them as closely as you can." Aramis instructed. "My guess is they're headed for Paris." She glanced briefly back at the other woman. "I'll try and find out what going on,"

"This was no ordinary kidnapping, was it?" he asked, his stead dancing beneath him; Aramis didn't have an answer for that. "If that's the case, meet me at the Bonacieux house." And he dug his heels in and urged his horse to a gallop, after the two men.

Aramis blew out her cheeks and pushed her hat back on. When she turned back towards the woman, she jolted in surprise to find the red-haired woman right there, with a small dagger pointed at the hollow in her throat.

"I swear, I'll kill you." Agnes said, pale. "Who are you?"

Aramis doffed her hat. "My name is Aramis of the King's Musketeers. My companion and I have been ordered to escort you and your son to the palace."

"Why?" she looked confused, slowly walking Aramis backward by the point of her dagger.

"I don't know. I was hoping you could tell me." No answer was forth-coming. Aramis looked at the small woman, pale and shaking, tears glistening in her eyes, but determinedly held in place by desperation. She wasn't looking at a killer, but a frightened mother. Who would go so far as to kidnap a baby? "How can I put this delicately?" she wondered, and Agnes looked at her in confusion, and then statement as Aramis pressed forward, despite the dagger, and reversed them. "Perhaps you went to a ball somewhere? Had a chance encounter with a charming and persuasive man? One thing lead to another and nine months later little Henry comes along…"

"What kind of woman do you think I am?" She gasped in anger, gabbing at her with the dagger.

Aramis leaned back and avoided being stuck. "I really have no idea. No one's blaming you. Things happen."

"I am faithful to my husband, Philippe Bernard!" she screamed and slashed at her with the dagger.

Aramis grabbed her arm and pried the dagger from it as the woman struggled. She kept hold of the woman's wrist, pulled into the air, forcing the woman close and on her toes. "If this Philippe is truly the father," she tossed the dagger flippantly over her shoulder, "where is he now?"

Tears flooded Agnes blue eyes and Aramis relented her hold. The woman pulled her shawl tightly around her shoulders. And turned around to face a large tree at the back wall and the few graves marked there. One mound fresh.

"I'm sorry." Aramis whispered, the horror clear in her eyes. She took her hat off and ran her fingers through her curly locks. "That was tactless and harsh."

"Just leave me alone." Agnes shook her head and stormed passed the Musketeer, back towards the church. "Father Duval!"

"Don't go in there!" Aramis called. Anges paused and turned back to look at the woman. "Don't go in there." She repeated, but Agnes turned and ran all the faster. Aramis cursed, shoving her hat onto her head as she took off after the woman, her other hand on the hilt of her sword, keeping the scabbard from tripping her up.

Agnes let out a cry in the doorway, a hand covering her mouth as she stumbled back into the doorway. Aramis grasped her shoulders from behind and turned the woman away from the body, using her own to block her view.

"I'm sorry about Father Duval." Aramis murmured.

"Where is he? What did you do to him?" Agnes demanded.

"What are you talking about?" She was confused. "The men that took your son killed Father Duval just before we arrived. I'm so—"

Agnes shook her head. "That's not Father Duval."

"What?" Aramis looked behind her, at the body of the man.

"That's Brother Ivan, he's the curate."

"Alright..." now there was another question of where Duval was, if not murdered.

"Why have those men taken my baby?" She asked, desperate for answers.

"How long have you lived in the village?" Aramis asked gently. "Something in your past my provide us with a clue."

"I've lived here ever since I fled my father's temper. Father Duval gave me a place to stay."

Aramis paused. "And your husband? What of him?"

Agnes shook her head, the timbre in her voice soft. "He was a simple man, kind and decent. We met and fell in love."

"Okay." Aramis sighed, there didn't seem to be much there at the moment, but they had the ride to Paris yet. "I sent my friend, d'Artagnan, the man that I was with, to follow the men who took your son." Aramis explained as she gently but firmly led the woman to the front of the church were her horse was hitched. "We'll head for Paris ourselves."

This was just supposed to be a simple mission. Go to the church, collect the mother and the baby, and return to Paris. But she should have known better. It turned from a simple mission the instant the Cardinal was involved. But just why and how deeply remained to be discovered.

She groaned internally. She knew it, even as she said it to d'Artagnan, that it was going to come back and haunt her. She was starting to wish she was in the detail to the King's hunting party, and hoped that her sisters were fairing better.

* * *

It was a relief when the King decided that they return to base camp and break for lunch. Hunting was second along side doing parade in Porthos' books. Because at least in hunting, even with a party that neared the hundred, there was the distinct possibility of killing something. And in those few minute of the hunt, it made her heart pound and put her on alert. She was a bit envious of Aramis and d'Artagnan, the pair got out of Hunting duty by Treville sending them on some hush-hush mission.

They convened at the bigger tent that had been set up for the King and the Queen, the other Musketeers stationing themselves at their posts, several attendants lining the spaces for the royal and the noble guests.

Still astride her horse, a blur moving in the distance over the hill, Athos settled her horse and rose an eyeglass from her bag to her eye. Several riders on horseback, heading directly for them came into focus. Seven riders in total, five in back and two in front, one appearing to be a woman.

"Captain!" Athos shouted.

Treville wheels his horse around and beside her, taking the offered eyeglass and holding it up. "It can't be." He whispered, his focus on the fast approaching woman. "Guards! Protect the King!" he screamed the order.

It was controlled chaos for a moment, as the Cardinal rushed the King and Queen into their tent, and the Red Guard ordered, and the Musketeers formed a line in front of the royal tent. Treville, Porthos, and Athos dismounting and standing out front.

"On your guard." Treville ordered, and the men behind him locked pikes. "Hold the line."

The two women and man stood ready as the riders approached; the five halting a short distance back, still mounted, while the front pair dismounted and approached.

The woman threw back the veil from across her face and halted a short distance in front of the trio, the man behind her shoulder. "I demand to see the King!" Louis suddenly burst from his tent in shock. Marie smiled at him and murmured, "My beloved son."

"I ordered you to never come back!"

"Where else would I turn when I am in grave danger?"

Louis shoved passed the line of guard in front of his tent, and stopped just behind Treville's shoulder. "I had you banished for life on pain of execution! You tried to steal my throne. Don't you see what you have done? Now I'm obliged to cut your head off and place in on a spike for all to ogle." Tears glistened in his eyes.

"Come inside, Sire." Anne called from the tent entrance next to the Cardinal. "Leave this to the Cardinal and Captain Treville."

"Oh!" Marie rushed forward. She dropped to her knees, reaching between Treville and Porthos for the King, the pair blocking her from going any further. "Please, I beg you! On my knees! I have nowhere else to turn to. In the name of the love that you once bore me!"

Louis sniffled, looking down at her. "I did love you... and you betrayed me."

"No." She gasped. Tears tracking down his face, the King turned and ran back into the tent, the Queen turning in after him. "Abandon me now and I die! Someone is trying to kill me! Please!" she screamed as Porthos and Athos grabbed her and pulled her away from the tent.

Treville and Richelieu entered the royal tent as well, Porthos and Athos watching Marie and her personal guard Vincent, some distance away, Musketeers and Red Guard scattered around them.

Vincent seethed at the two women that barred their way. "The King's mother come to you in peril and you treat her like a common criminal. So much for the chivalrous reputations of the Musketeers." He spat. "I'm disappointed."

Porthos didn't even bat an eyelash. "But on th' bright side, you're not dead yet. Perhaps somethin' to look forward to?"

He chuckled in derision. "You think I'm frightened of couple of woman like you? The King's toy soldiers."

"For a glorified boot boy, you've got an awful lot to say."

Vincent growled and pulled his sword an inch from the scabbard.

The other Guard and Musketeers reacted instantly to this, and Porthos grasped the hilt of her own sword eagerly, Athos casually put her palm around her own.

"Draw if you wish," she stated, "It would be out duty and incidentally, our pleasure, to kill you."

"Vincent," Marie put a hand on his arm. "I am weary. Ladies," she turned to the pair, "I assure you, I have no argument with you. I just wish to seek asylum from people after my life."

Vincent withheld and the guard withdrew. Porthos relaxed her grip in disappointment. She really was looking forward to killing this man. The silence was tense between the four, until finally, the Cardinal exited the royal tent and approached, stopping between Porthos and Athos.

"The King is occupied with pressing business." He stated. "He cannot see you at this time."

"Her Gracious Majesty has survived one attack, only by God's grace." Vincent said, his voice hard as he glared. "We are too few to withstand another attempt!"

"His Majesty's decision is final." Richelieu replied, his grey eyes cold. "You should be so lucky that the King has decided to suspend his ruling of your banishment. The King has ordered the arrest of these assassins, until the time that they are found."

* * *

d'Artagnan followed behind the two kidnappers at a distance. Keeping his steed at a steady cantor, his shirtsleeves flapping from under his sleeveless doublet, he ate up the distance. The curiosity that he had fostered from this mysterious mission issued by the Cardinal, grew in weight as more questions filled him. What interest did this men have in this child that they would murder the priest, and attempt to discard the mother?

As Aramis had predicted, the pair road straight for Paris. It was a bit more difficult to followed them by the crowded streets, but even if they did look and spot him, they weren't likely to recognize him. If it weren't for the baby basket strapped to the one man's back, d'Artagnan might have lost them in a moment's distraction.

He followed them to the dying district of Paris. Linens of innumerable colours lined the street, hanging from rope window-to-window, fluttering in the wind. He reigned his horse in and watched as they road into the building at the dead-end, dismounted, and knocked on the door. They were let in by another man.

He watched for nearly half and hour, before he wheeled his stead around and headed to the Bonaciuex residence, the agreed meeting place. Hopefully, Aramis and Agnes would have already arrived, so he could report to the woman and then return to the post to keep watch.

* * *

Treville, Athos, Porthos, and a few Red Guard escorted Marie and Vincent, in a different chaperon to the King. Though Louis had presently waved her warranted execution, it was decided that she was to be escorted to a different location than Louvre. If there were indeed assassins after the woman, there was too much of a chance that Louis could be caught in the crossfire.

"The Cardinal has a personal grudge against me." Marie pleaded to Treville, riding beside him in the middle of the group. "Captain, please, you are a reasonable man."

Treville could hardly look at the woman riding next to him. He knew this woman, and the words from her mouth were just too sweet. "You forget I was there when you tried to seize power, Your Majesty." His words were clipped. "With respect, don't expect sympathy from me. Any enemies after you head now, are of your own doing."

Porthos slowly reigned her horse in, Athos beside her at the front of the escort, the other behind them. It was too quiet, something didn't feel right. Her suspicions were proven correct when two dozen yards ahead, an armed man ran out onto the path.

"Ambush!" Porthos screamed, and a second later, several shots were fire from the man on the road and several positioned men among the tree. The group veered to the left, Porthos, Athos, and Vincent firing their pistols in return as they retreated.

"Are you hurt, Your Majesty?" Athos demanded.

"No!"

With that, Vincent, Porthos, Athos and a Red Guard charged the remaining shooters, who attempted to flee, while Treville and the other Guard remained in protection of Marie.

Vincent managed to spur his steed ahead of the others, shooting one of the assassins with his second pistol, and drove up alongside another, diving from his moving horse with a yell and to the ground. They struggled, but Vincent quickly got the upper hand.

"No!" Athos shouted as the man pulled a dagger and Porthos leapt from her horse. "No! We need him for questioning!" But Vincent was already slitting the man's throat with a twisted expression.

"No!" Porthos grabbed him, but the man was already dead. She shoved him away.

"No one who seeks to harm my Queen warrants the privilege of questions!" Vincent spat, breathing heavily.

Porthos wanted to throttle the man, but was forced to stand-down when Treville road up upon the scene, his pistol reloaded and in hand.

He took in the scene. The dead assassin crumpled to the ground with his throat slit, Vincent defiant and satisfied with a bloody dagger, Porthos with a deathly posture, and Athos still astride her horse in a cold fury.

"What's happened? Were their any men taken?" Treville questioned.

"No." Athos answered. "Several escaped, and Vincent killed this one."

"Oh!" Treville eyed the other man. He shook his head, there was nothing they could do for it now. "We must return to the palace, while the assassin's position is weak."

* * *

Treville returned to the palace with Marie and Vincent. The meeting with the King and Marie in the hall was brief, with assurances to the King that all the assailants would be apprehended. And it ended with the King once again in tears, and storming from the room. The Cardinal walked with him off the grounds. And what the other man said, only confirmed what he was fearing. That during her exile, Marie had been gather supporters, and there were rumours that they were building a militia.

Treville remembered all too well the days of Marie de Medici's attempted coup those years back. The chaos, the bloodshed—brother against brother. He never want to see those times again. It was not going to happen on his watch. He was going to trust his instincts, they rarely failed him. Where Marie was concerned, there was always something more large and devious at play.

Just what it was, remained to be seen at the moment.

* * *

Athos and Porthos had stayed behind at the scene of the ambush, while Treville had gone ahead to the palace with Marie and Vincent. The Red Guard were collecting the bodies of the fallen to take back to the morgue, where perhaps they might reveal clues as to their employer.

"If you were Marie's personal guard, wouldn't you want to asked questions, find out who's behind this?" Athos wondered out loud, her confusion evident. "Why kill them when he didn't have to?"

Porthos scoffed and shook her head, her hands on her hips. "Vincent was out of control. You saw 'im. It was like 'e relished killin' that man."

"A good soldier is never out of control." She said, her arms crossed over her chest. "And he's one of the best."

"A soldier can be good _and_ a killer." Porthos pointed out. She sighed and turned in a slow circle where all the main shooting had happened. "They had the weaponry of a small army, yet not one shot found its mark? What's wrong with this picture to you?"

"No a scratch on any of us. With as many of them as there were, they should have at least hit one of us. But nothing."

"Wouldn't you at least expect to see some damage to the trees?" She asked, gesturing around them. "Or odd piece of splintered bark? But there's just nothin'."

"I don't see any used wadding, either."

Porthos looked back at her. "And no spent musket balls."

"We should get back to Treville, he'll want to hear about this."

Porthos nodded her agreement and the two woman mounted and wheeled their horses about, and set off at a cantor. This whole thing smelt off, but finally, they were on the trail that led to the cause of this particular stink.

* * *

They found Treville out in the grassy training yard outback the garrison. They handed their horses off to the stable boys, and walked on either side of their Captain and explained what they had discovered.

"Captain, there were eight shots fired—yet no damage and not a simple injury to anyone." Porthos accompanied gesture was a double slash through the air in a flat X.

"The gunshots were nothing more than a firework display." Athos said.

"You're certain?" Treville questioned.

She replied dryly with, "Either that or they were the worst assassins ever."

"No assassin that bad exists," Porthos agreed. "None that were left breathin' at least."

He sighed. "The last time I went up against Marie de Medici, she threw me in prison. I'd rather not go back—perhaps if the food were better…" He paused. "If this ambush was staged, I need to know why."

"Vincent could have captured the gunman." Athos said. "They would have talked sooner or later."

"'E wanted to make sure they wouldn't." Porthos finished the thought.

He nodded in agreement. "Keep watch on him. And Marie, if you can. They make a move, I want to hear about it. Either he's manipulating her or they're in it together." They stopped at the garrison tunnel. "Either way, we need to know what their endgame is."

Porthos and Athos nodded and went to fetch their horses again as Treville climbed the stairs to his office.

"Aramis and d'Artagnan will be sad to 'ave missed out on all the fun." Porthos noted.

"I'm sure their mission is just as pleasant and uncomplicated as ours." Athos drawled.

"The two of 'em with a baby? I'm sad to 'ave missed it!"

* * *

Constance wasn't surprised that when d'Artagnan returned unexpectedly, it was with a favour in mind. This wouldn't be the first stray that he put in her arms, but it definitely was nothing like the first. She still shuddered to think of the man, and what might of happened had d'Artagnan not returned when he did. The only good thing to come of that situation, was that she had been able to get the young man to agree to give her sword and shooting lessons—without Bonacieux discovering, of course. It was a secret between them.

Once she had agreed to house Agnes, he left her with a message to give to Aramis as soon as they arrived. She agreed, told him to be careful, for which he waved of her concern and then she was left to wait.

She went back to making dinner, adding more ingredients for more servings. She hadn't even met the woman yet, but her sympathy and sorrow for her was expanding the more she tried to picture what the woman must be going through—but it soon became too difficult to just picture, let alone actually go through, so she forced herself to stop.

When Aramis finally arrived, Constance ushered Agnes into the sitting room, the room already radiating warmth from the fire she lit in the fireplace and the candles she'd lit. Though she knew the warmth of the fire would do nothing to take the cold from her soul at her stolen child.

"I can't begin to imagine what you're going through," Constance murmured to the woman, "But if anyone can help get your son back, it's Aramis and d'Artagnan." She left Agnes with a cup of hot tea and returned to the kitchen with Aramis.

"d'Artagnan spoke with you?" Aramis asked quietly of Constance in the kitchen, so Agnes wouldn't hear.

"Yes," Constance nodded, stirring the bubbling stew. "He followed the men who kidnapped the baby, to the dye district. They have a compound at the dead-end with other armed men. He's keeping watch over it now."

"Good." Aramis nodded. "Thank you, Constance. I know you had no reason to do this after the last time—"

"But this isn't the same, is it?" She said, giving Aramis a filled bowl of stew and turned to fill another. "You _have_ to get that woman's baby back, Aramis."

"I know. I know." There was something in her voice that made Constance pause and look at her, but she didn't know the woman well enough to question what it was.

Constance and Aramis returned to the sitting room. Agnes sat on the lounge in the middle of the room, staring into the fire.

"I know you don't feel hungry, but you should eat something—keep your strength up." Agnes nodded and accepted the bowl of steaming stew, but Constance didn't feet offended when the woman set it on the side table and went back to hugging the knitted white blankie and staring blankly into the flickering fireplace. She turned to Aramis and whispered, "Try to make her eat something. I'll go and join d'Artagnan."

Aramis nodded and back in the kitchen Constance put on her cloak, and filled another bowl with stew, covering it with a towel to take to d'Artagnan, the district a short walk from the house.

Aramis removed her hat and sat in the chair next to the lounge, and set it and her bowl of stew on the small table that separated the two. She looked at the woman, able to understand from experience of her own when she was younger, some of what she might be feeling.

"I don't want to have to fight you again."

"Being apart from him," she whispered, speaking for the first time since they arrived at the Bonacieux's. "It's like a wound that won't heal. They pain only gets worse."

"He's your flesh and blood."

Agnes looked at her, sniffling. "Do you have family?"

Aramis blew out a breath and sat back in the chair for a moment. "Not unless you count the Musketeers." She answered after a pause. It might sound sad to an outsider, but it was Athos, Porthos, and now d'Artagnan that held her together.

"No husband? No one to come home to at night?"

The Musketeers shook her head and gave a less than casual shrug. "Something always gets in the way." She admitted, taking the stew in-hand just for something to do. She took a bite, and though it was warm and tasty, flavoured to her liking, she didn't feel all that hungry.

Agnes' head titled lightly, and she looked sad on her behalf. "Have you ever felt it? Love? I mean real, true love? That need that leaves you incapable of existing without the other person?" Her tone was wistful and it was clear that she was speaking from experience.

Aramis swallowed and leaned forward, looking into the dark gravy of the stew before meeting her eyes. "I was sixteen. We—we were going to marry... but it didn't work out. He left. I was heartbroken, but..." she shook her head helplessly, trailing off; her words so loaded with meaning and yet left so much unsaid.

Agnes gasped lightly. "16? So young. And you've never found love since?"

She remembered Marsac, but had come to realize that that hadn't been true love. And anything pure that had been between them—the events of Savoy, and the five years after it—had spoiled and twisted it into something bitter and best left in the dark.

She set the bowl back on the table and shifted from the chair onto the lounge next to Agnes. "If I answer, will you tell me why those people on the road ran from you?"

Suddenly, Agnes' eyes brimmed with tears and she sobbed into her hand. "It's nobody's business!"

She sighed lightly, gently touching the woman's shoulder. "If you don't trust me, how can I help you?"

She wiped at her eyes uselessly. "There's only one man that I ever trusted."

"And there's no possibility of me taking his place." Aramis murmured. "I know I dress like a man, but I am far from it." That at least got a twitch of amusement from the red-haired mother, and that was more than she had been expecting. "Please, help me understand."

Agnes nodded and took a deep breath through her nose, sitting up a little bit straighter, clutching the knit blanket like a life raft. "My husband, Philippe, was like a helpless child when I first met him. He'd been locked away so long, he never learned to fend for himself. He didn't look like other men..." She paused for a moment and Aramis stayed silent. "He was malformed from birth. Touched by the devil, they said."

"Is that why those villagers attacked you like that?" Aramis asked.

She nodded, her voice hard. "Ignorance and superstition. I was sent to be his nurse. I was petrified. I'd believed everything I'd heard." She shook her head. "They couldn't have been farther from the truth. He had the kindest heart I'd ever known. He was shy and confused—frightened. But full of innocent love and goodness."

"What of his family?"

"Well, they abandoned him at birth. His mother came to visit once. In secret—because she was shamed. I was lonely and he was kind. I soon learned to see the beauty of his soul. And I fell in love with him. We married in secret. Father Duval had kept Philippe out of sight for most of his life and when Henry was born—everything changed. Philippe was alive. He refused to hide any longer. We walked through the village together as a family."

Aramis gave a gentle smile. "That must have been a fine moment."

"Yes, very fine, indeed." Agnes returned the smile, but hers was bitter. "They beat him—until his bones shattered. Burned him—while he still breathed life."

Aramis paled in horror. "You saw this? You were there?"

"They made me watch." She paused, struggling, her fist clenched over her heart. "But he's still with me. In here. And in Henry. Oh, Henry!" She sobbed, crying for her stolen child, the pain too much.

Aramis reached up and gently brushed her cheek with the back of her finger and vowed. "I promise you, on my honour, the safe return of your child. I don't know why they've taken Henry, but I will reunite the two of you."

* * *

Constance spotted d'Artagnan staked out at the house at the bend in the street, his eyes trained on the compound, leaning back on a pile of wood in his sleeveless doublet despite the cool night air.

She allowed herself a brief second of praise at his profile, before she approached. "Here, I brought you something to eat." She said in way of greeting, holding out the covered bowl.

"This looks great, I'm starving." d'Artagnan took it with a grin, she took the towel back with a flick of her wrist. He ducked his head, inhaling its aroma from the rising steam. "Thank you!" and took a big bite. "I take it that Aramis arrived?"

Constance rolled her eyes at his manners, but nodded. He turned his attention back towards the house and continued to eat. Constance stood slightly in front of him, his bent knee in her wrapped cloak, and watching the building as well.

"What are we looking for again?"

He ignored the _we_. "A way in. A way out. Which room the baby's in—anything that helps, really."

She shot him a glance and raised her chin. "I can fight."

He immediately shook his head. "No. You're not going any nearer that place than where you're standing now."

"Because you don't trust me?"

He looked her straight in the eye. "Because I couldn't forgive myself if you were harmed."

Constance was thankful for the dying light as her cheeks warmed at his thought and tone. She was a grown woman, she shouldn't blush, but d'Artagnan somehow always managed to make her. She made herself look from his dead eyes and back to the house. She cleared her throat, and her own tone took on something of its own.

"You should see the look on Agnes' face when she speaks of Henry, d'Artagnan. That bond." She sighed. "To value something over your own life. I want to know love that strong."

d'Artagnan set the empty bowl beside him, watching as a woman knocked on the door, but could see Constance's profile beside him. He had that, for four of the greatest women he'd had known. And said, with a twisted heart, "You'll have children of your own, soon enough."

"I suppose." She glanced at the ground. "If it's meant to be."

"I've been watching women come in and out for hours now!" he stood and gestured. "Who are they?"

"Wet nurses." She said; and the woman who knocked entered as another woman left, and the door was shut tight again. "How do you think the baby's been feeding?"

"Huh." He was silent, his head hung lightly, his arm crossed over his chest. The idea came to him, and he resisted it at first, but he was sure it was brilliant and slowly, he turned to the woman beside him.

She caught his look. "What?" she wondered wearily. He raised a row at her and her eyes widened a moment later as she interpreted the brow. She shook her head immediately and scoffed. "Oh, no. No, no!"

"What's the problem?"

"You just told me that this was as far as you would let me go!"

He shrugged helplessly. "Circumstances change in the field, Constance."

"I can't!" she insisted.

"Why not?"

She fumbled. "I—how can I be a wet nurse if I haven't got any milk?"

"Improvise." He smiled charmingly.

"Yeah, that's all _you_ seem to do."

"It's worked so far, hasn't it?" she gave him an unimpressed look. "Constance, I will not let anything happen to you. I would give my life before I let that happen. Just give it the night, alright? If not you, then I'm sure if you lend Aramis a dress, she can do it." Yeah, he still did owe her for what happened after they had first met at the ruins just outside Paris.

The silence was pregnant.

"I'm going to tell her you said that." And she turned, heading back towards home.

"Please don't!" he pleaded, cringing.

She smiled. Of course she'd already thought about it and agreed, but he didn't have to know that. His change was just so sudden it took her a second to get her footing again. She would help in any way she could to help get Agnes, Henry back—is she was in the same situation, she'd hope the same would be done for her.

* * *

It was the next morning, and d'Artagnan had met a short distance away Aramis, Constance, and Agnes to add some legs to this brilliant plan of his. Of course, he had the entire night to procrastinate his idea of sending Constance into unknown danger, but they had all agreed it was their best option to get a hold on the situation inside.

They went over some of the key points as they walked back towards the kidnapper's house.

"We need to know which room the baby's in and how many men there are." He said.

"He likes music." Agnes told her. "If he cries, sing him a lullaby."

"Will humming do?" Constance wondered nervously. "My singing might frighten him."

"Then give him this." she handed over the knit blanket that had not once left her hands. She whispered, "Tell him I love him."

Constance nodded to her, almost cradling the blanket in her arms like it was the baby. Aramis put her hand on the woman's shoulder and guided Agnes over to a long alcove in the stone wall, the area obscured by several flapping sheets.

d'Artagnan kept on with Constance, a reassuring hand at the small of her back.

"Why are you letting me do this again?" she wondered.

"Because of the brilliant plan I had—it was because of you that I came up with it." He reminded her.

"Great." She muttered dryly. "Why don't I wait to take credit for it, until later, okay?"

He gave her a small smile. "You're going to do great, Constance." His hand briefly squeezed her waist. "Be careful."

"Thanks for the tip. I bear it in mind." She said

He stopped walking, and he felt pride when her gait didn't falter as she headed straight on.

Her breath was shaky as she made for the front door. _Don't be a chicken, Constance. This was exactly what you said you could do the other night._ She hissed to herself and then she straightened her shoulders, stopped, and knocked.

The eyehole set in the center of the door opened, and she briefly say an eye staring at her before the door was opened and a pistol was directed her way.

"Who're you?" the man asked.

"The wet nurse." She said.

After a brief moment, his eyes lingering on her like a physical touch, he nodded and gestured her inside. He went up the staircase and she followed.

"What happened to the other girl?"

"She's sick."

She remembered last night when d'Artagnan's idea was pitched to Aramis and the woman had laughed. Constance had glared and for whatever reason defended d'Artagnan's absurd idea. Aramis grinned and told her about Meeqs. She'd let out barks of laughter as she pictured it. Next Constance met with the Gascon, she'd made a sly comment about cowboys.

He'd looked at her in confusion for a brief moment and then his eyes widened as he realized what she knew, and blush flooded him olive cheeks, and she hated how adorable he had looked until he gathered himself and told her indignantly that sometimes, like now, acting was a part of the gig.

"Good. You've got a nicer backside."

 _It's just a part._ She thought. And she played it, even if her heart was thumping like a drum the whole time. It was what she projected that shielded her—flirty wet nurse.

It was a relief when she finally escaped him in the baby's room at the end of the hall. After the brief exchange with the wet nurse already there, she was left alone with Henry. Holding the baby in her arms, she understood what it could be that Agnes was going through being separated from him.

"Hello," she cooed to him softly. "I brought a message from someone who loves you very much."

Checking to make sure that she wasn't being watched, she walked over to the open-shuttered window, and waved the knit blanket out the window as signal.

"That means nine men." Aramis said, spotting the signal from where the three of them watched and waited.

* * *

"A little early in the day for a stroll." Porthos commented.

Athos and Porthos followed Marie and Vincent through Paris at a distance. They'd snuck out of the palace. Treville was right to send the two women to watch them.

The pair paused at the corner of the street, unknowingly at the moment opposite Aramis, d'Artagnan, and Agnes; to watch Marie and Vincent to the house at the end of the street.

Aramis watched the pair pass, and her eyes widened as the recognized the former Queen. "What in God's name is _she_ doing here?"

Agnes own shock was visible. "I know that woman."

Porthos spotted Aramis and d'Artagnan across the street behind the fluttering sheets and elbow Athos next to her, jerking her chin in their direction. "That can't be a coincidence."

"Shall we say hello?" Athos said, and the pair approached.

"Fancy meetin' you two 'ere." Porthos announced as she and Athos joined their little party in the alcove.

"What are you two doing here?" d'Artagnan asked in surprise.

"The same question could be asked of you, too." Porthos raised a brow.

"The baby that we were sent to retrieve," he glanced at Agnes, "was kidnapped by the men inside that house."

"Is that who I think it is?" Aramis growled.

Porthos nodded. "Marie de Medici. We followed 'er from the palace."

"Don't be ridiculous!" Anges shook her head, drawing their attention. "That's just Philippe's mother."

The other's were confused, but Aramis' eyes widened. It couldn't be. That was just too insane to be true!

"Who's Marie de Medici?" He asked.

"I believe that's Your Majesty, to you peasants." Athos remarked.

"Your M—"

"She's the King's mother."

"Are you certain that's the woman who came to visit your husband?" Aramis demanded of Agnes.

"Yes!" she was started by the forcefulness behind the other woman's voice.

d'Artagnan looked at them in the following silence before he looked back at the compound. "Constance is in there on her own."

Aramis briefly lifted her hat and ran her hand through her hair. "There's nothing we can do about that at the moment." When he looked about to protest, she continued with, "Constance can handle this, Charlie. We wouldn't have let her in otherwise."

d'Artangna exhaled and nodded.

Athos turned to Aramis. "Who is Philippe and what does he have to do with Marie?"

Aramis looked at Agnes, and only spoke after the woman gave a nod. And explained briefly her thoughts on the connection between Marie, Philippe, and Louis.

"You're saying that Marie was pregnant with twins, but Louis sits on the throne because Philippe was deformed." Athos said slowly.

* * *

Back at the Palace, the Cardinal was learning the very same truth from Father Duval, who had survived the attack at the church, and made his way to Paris on foot, the church's ledger in his possession. In it, was the recorded truth that Marie fell ill on her journey to Fontainebleau and Duval had birth the child(ren). The first baby born was Philippe, but he was deformed. Then, unexpectedly, a second boy was born, healthy—Louis. The court officials only arrived to witness Louis being born. And Marie had Duval secret Philippe away, where the Father raised him at his church.

It wasn't too hard after that to put together what was happening next, that Marie knew about the legitimate child bore by her first born.

* * *

"So what does she want with Henry?" Agnes asked.

"It can't be nostalgia." Athos said. "She doesn't have that bone in her body."

"She did attempt a coup, remember?" Aramis reminded.

"Henry 'as the right to the throne." Porthos agreed. "She could raise 'im 'ow she'd like, and in the meantime, she'd 'ave control, just like she always wanted."

Aramis expression hardened with a resolve she didn't want to think about. "We can't let her take Henry."

When the door opened a minute later, Aramis took her harquebus from where she'd leaned it against the wall, and stuck the muzzle out from between the hanging linens as Marie and Vincent stepped out. She aimed, ready to take the shot, but after a moment of observation, she lowered it and let the pair pass unscathed.

"They haven't take him." She whispered in relief.

"So, what's the plan?" d'Artagnan asked.

"We're going in."

Agnes clenched her hands together at her chest, her heart thumping. She was going to get Henry back!

* * *

Athos slammed her fist against the door, banging on the wood before she quickly crouched and flattened herself to it as the eyehole was open and the man on the inside peered out. Porthos was on the left, Aramis and d'Artagnan on the right. All hidden from view. A moment later, the door opened and Porthos punched the guard with her harsh strength in the face. His eyes rolled up into his head, and as his knees started to buckle, the tall woman grabbed his vest and pulled his outside, throwing him to the ground over Athos. Athos quickly grabbed the door and pulled in closed again. Aramis tossed her harquebus across to Porthos, and a minute later, Athos shoved the door open again, striking another guard, and the three women and young man charged in. Shoving passed the man, Athos, Aramis, and d'Artagnan headed up the stairs. Porthos only paused long enough to crack the man's head with the butt of the rifle, before she went through the door at the bottom of the stairs.

d'Artagnan and Athos stepped onto the landing first, and walked casually over to the four playing cards at the small table.

"What kind of guards are you lot?" d'Artagnan said and they looked at the pair in confusion. "Going on like this, just about anybody could walk in here." And he shot the nearest man with his pistol, jump starting the other three men.

As Athos and d'Artagnan contended with those remaining three, Aramis walked quickly passed down the hall towards Constance and the babe. A man came running towards her at the sound of the gunshot, and she quickly grabbed him, shoving him against the wall and sliding her _main gauche_ between his ribs. As he slumped down to the floor, she turned to find another man charging her and she drew her sword smoothly, meeting the man's blows. They exchanged briefly and quickly, the fight over within ten seconds as she found an opening and slashed his belly wide open.

"Constance?" She pushed the curtains from the doorway and stepped into the room at the end of the hall, only to stop short at the sight that greeted her. Constance with Henry in her arms, and her bodice halfway unlaced, her breasts nearly spilling from the top.

"Don't Musketeers ever knock?" Constance scoffed and turned.

Aramis looked more amused then shamefaced. "Apologies. But we are short for time." Constance was a beautiful woman, and if there was one thing that Aramis loved, it was a beautiful woman—so of course she looked.

* * *

d'Artagnan grappled with the man. It was embarrassing that he was struggling with this one man when Athos was facing two opponents and holding her own. He turned them, shoving the man away. And saw a grand opening. Before the man could move, he kicked him square in the chest. The man's eyes widened and he let out a short cry as he fell out the two story window, and was cut short as he hit the ground. d'Artagnan leaned over the sill and looked down, making sure that the man was actually dead.

* * *

"Constance!" Aramis urged her as the woman struggled to lace herself back up.

"Take him!"

"What?"

"Aramis!"

"Mm." The Musketeer quickly sheathed her sword and took the baby in her arms, they naturally formed to cradle the baby against her chest. "Hello." She cooed. "So you're the one who all the fuss is about?"

With nimble fingers, Constance started to lace her bodice back up. She'd gotten an unexpected visit from a woman who turned out to be Henry's grandmother and when the baby started to cry, she'd been forced into the play of preparing to feed him. Luckily, before the deed actually had to happen, the woman and her scary companion, left. And then, just moments later, she'd heard the first shot.

Henry started to sniffle and cry.

"Aw, don't cry." Aramis shushed him, and started to lightly bounce him.

"Sing to him." Constance said, "he likes that, remember?"

Aramis did only after the briefest of hesitations as she looked at Constance's back before turning her attention back to Henry and she started to hum a song her mother used to sing to her when she was a baby, circulating the room.

"There was a woman here," Constance started.

"I know." She continued to hum.

"But... the things she was saying... apparently she's—"

"The grandmother."

Constance looked at her. "Is there anything that you don't know?"

Henry quieted. And Aramis grinned at her. "Not anymore. It's a gift, you see?"

"There." Constance straightened, finally done lacing. She turned to her. "Now—"

"Baby, now!" and the ninth man barged into the room.

"Take him!" Aramis shouted, intending to hand Henry over to Constance but the other woman just reacted and grabbed the Musketeer's sword from her belt. The man slashed and Constance spun, the sword raised. She flinched at the shocks that went up her arm the contact.

It was _not_ the same when she practised with d'Artagnan. This man wanted to kill her. She backed the woman and baby back protectively into the corner.

Aramis could instantly tell that the woman at least had a basic familiarity with a sword. There wasn't time to switch sword for baby, the man would cut them down without pause.

"You got this?" Aramis demanded of the woman who planted her feet and stood in stance, the sword ready. If anything happened to this red-haired woman, d'Artagnan would never forgive her.

"I got this!" and she could hear it in her voice as the man came at her with fast strikes, she blocked them almost without falter in quick succession. And in a sequence that would make any raw recruit jealous, suddenly drove at the man, forcing him backwards with fast strokes. His sword arm knocked against the wall, and with a cry, she slashed the sword into the opening and sent him sprawling dead to the floor.

* * *

"Enjoying the view, are you?" Athos drawled, panting lightly.

d'Artagnan quickly pulled his head back in the window and turned to see Athos on the floor, giving on of her assailants a boot to the gut. He stumbled backwards and Athos jumped to her feet, and ran the man through with her sword before he could regain his stance. d'Artagnan quickly picked up one of the chairs and bludgeoned the other man at Athos' back.

* * *

Breathing heavily, Constance started down at the man at her feet, dead at her hand. She couldn't see the wound with him face-down, but the spreading blood was clear enough.

Aramis slowly approached. "Constance?" she murmured softly, and put a gentle hand on the woman's shoulder. She felt the woman jump. "You going to be alright?"

"Mm." She gave a fast nod and turned from the man, and to the woman. "You? Henry?"

"Both fine—thanks to you. That was some impressive sword work, _Madame_."

"Thanks." She allowed herself a small smile of pride.

Ever since d'Artagnan promised to teach her to shoot and swordfight, she'd made sure he never forgot. Every free chance of his, she stole, to teach her over the last couple months. Every free chance she had to herself when he was away at the garrison or on a mission and her husband was out on business, she'd practice with d'Artagnan's extra pistol when he left it and the old blunt sword he was able to commandeer from the garrison for her lessons. But he kept his word and was vigilant in his lessons—and as today had shown, it was a credit to her skills and his ability to teach.

"You're good with him." She remarked to Aramis, stepping to the woman's shoulder as way of distraction, both gazing at the baby in her arms.

"Mm. Get's your maternal clock ticking, doesn't it?"

Constance let out a soft sigh as her gaze turned wistful. She wondered whether she would ever have a boy or a girl, but decided that it didn't matter. It would have his straight dark locks, but her grey-blue eyes that would stand out with his olive-toned skin—

This wasn't good. She was thinking of children in terms of d'Artagnan being the father and not Bonacieux. She cleared throat awkwardly and Aramis looked at her curiously as she stepped back.

"Here." She slid the sword back into Aramis belt.

* * *

Porthos ran up the stairs and took in the scene, the five dead men sprawled up and down the hall in some sort of death fashion, and she looked disappointed. "I missed all th' fun?"

"Sorry, Porthos." Athos flipped her hair out of her face. "Maybe next time."

d'Artagnan headed down the hall to see what was taking Constance and Aramis as Athos consoled the tall woman.

* * *

"What are you waiting for?" Constance gestured to the door. "There's a worried mother out there, waiting for her baby!"

"Right!" Aramis rushed from the room with Henry wrapped in the knit blanket, and Constance grabbed her cloak, crashing into d'Artagnan outside the room.

"Alright?" he asked her. She nodded. He grinned. "That was great, wasn't it? Don't you just love it when a plan comes together?"

Her expression tightened, and still coming off the adrenaline rush, Constance punched him in the gut. From her anger at him putting her in that situation; for her thoughts about him earlier; and because of his idiotic smile. She huffed and stalked passed him.

He wheezed, holding his stomach and looking after her in confusion. "Apparently not." It was a moment later that he noticed the hand hanging out the doorway and looked inside the room to see the man's body and wondered if that had anything to do with it.

As the left the house, Porthos saw the man sprawled and unmoving and glanced up at the window on the second story. She looked at d'Artagnan. "Did you throw that guy out the window?" he nodded. "Next time, you get the downstairs." He chuckled lightly in response.

Agnes cried when Aramis' returned Henry back to her, but they couldn't linger, and so had to urge her along as they group headed back towards the garrison.

* * *

They'd made it back to the garrison without incident, and if their odd group drew attention, it wasn't by the unwanted. d'Artagnan had split off and walked Constance back home, and Athos and Porthos went in search of Treville while Aramis settled Henry and Agnes in a spare room on the ground floor.

Aramis paused at the door, watching unseen as Agnes sang to her baby. Her voice was simple, but she found it beautiful anyways. It held every ounce of that mother's love, and that was beautiful.

She uncocked the flint of her harquebus and leaned it against the wall, and gently sat on the bed next to the bundled baby. Agnes smiled from where she knelt in front of the bed, and Aramis returned it.

"He's beautiful, Agnes." She whispered, her finger lightly brushing across the baby's brow.

"You'll have one of your own, one day, Aramis."

She shook her head. "I don't think that's in the cards for me anymore."

Agnes looked at her intensely and with sympathy. "You—"

"You really did love Philippe?" Aramis interrupted her. "Even though..."

"You learn to see passed appearances, into people's inner most desires. His were true and honest—we saved each other from a life of shadows." Agnes told her knowingly. "That's what those two women and young man have done for you."

"Perhaps you're right."

"My husband may be dead—and that's my ill fortune—but I will remain faithful to him. But I will never be alone." She turned back to her son, her eyes shinning clear with love. "Philippe gave me Henry, he's my life now."

Seeing Agnes with Henry, it brought back memories of what her life could have been when Aramis was sixteen. And though it wouldn't have been the same as Musketeering, it would have fulfilled her in a way that soldiering couldn't.

* * *

d'Artagnan managed to make it back to the garrison just before Treville returned from his brief and interesting meeting with the Cardinal. He was right when he said that the secrets hidden in the shadows would eventually reveal themselves—he was just a bit shocked by the severity to King and Country they were.

"So what do we do now?" Aramis questioned him as they walked through the portico that led from the room Agnes was placed in, towards the stair in the yard.

"The boy goes to the Cardinal." Treville said.

"And then what?"

"Is the child ready?" Treville said instead.

"Hasn't the woman suffered enough?" Athos replied.

"Absolutely." Porthos said unhelpfully. "She's been with Aramis for two days!"

Treville didn't pause as he continued up the stairs to his office. He'd given his order. But while the others stopped at the bottom of the stair, Aramis took the steps two at a time, her harquebus clenched in her hand.

"You know what will happen. The boy with disappear. He'll be murdered, and Agnes too, probably."

"I'm sorry. My hands are tied. You have to take him to the Cardinal." Treville stopped at his office door, his back to the woman. "I'd go with you myself, but I'm busy. Damn paperwork, you see?" he looked at Aramis pointedly over his shoulder. "It will take me the rest of the afternoon—at least." And he shut the door to his office, effectively cutting off the conversation.

Aramis paused and stared at the door a moment, and then smirked in realisation. "Why Captain, I knew there was a reason why I love you so."

She knew what she had to do, but she wouldn't drag the others into it. This would get her a court martial, or dead if she were caught. The Cardinal might accept it in the end, but Marie and Vincent, they'd be out for blood.

* * *

When Aramis came down from Treville's office, she was subdued and angry, but grudgingly accepting, and the other's agreed to let her tell Agnes what was going to happen. They three convened at their usual table in the yard, and ate. It was near a half-hour when Athos went to get Aramis.

"Aramis? Aramis?" she stuck her head through the window to the room, but it was empty but for Aramis' pauldron laying on the bed. Athos cursed and reached through the window, grabbing the leather. She returned to the others grimly.

"Is that—" d'Artagnan's eyes widened as he saw the shoulder guard clenched in Athos' hand.

"She's gone." Athos stated plainly, a sharp note in her tone.

"Should 'ave known she was up to somethin'." Porthos shook her head. "She was too compliant. Right, what are we goin' to do?" she asked.

"Find her, before she get's herself killed."

"Any idea's where they might have gone?" d'Artagnan wondered as they got their mounts from the stable boy.

Porthos spoke after a moment in thought as they spurred their horses out the garrison gate. "I know just the place."

* * *

Aramis had secured passage for Agnes and Henry to Spain that would leave on the opposite side of the river in an hour, but Agnes was refusing to leave and to see the truth. An arm around her shoulders, she lead the woman and her baby down the path of the market that lay outside the Westside of Paris' boarder.

It was a place where many faces came and did there business, and then went away again. Not all of it necessarily legal, but necessary nonetheless. It was the perfect place, if not the obvious place, for someone like Agnes to go to disappear.

Like this, with her hair tucked up under her hat and her cloak obscuring the curve of her body, they looked just like a man, his wife, and their child. Without her pauldron, she felt a sense of guilt—but this was not Musketeer's business, this was _her_ business. And she needed Agnes to see! to understand.

She found a private place for cover by a tree surrounded by stacks of small barrels and kegs.

Aramis hissed harshly but truthfully to the woman. "You'll be dead in a week! Poison in your food, a knife twisted in your ribs in a long, empty corridor. Wake up! Marie de Medici won't stop. You think the Cardinal will let you continue on? How can you be so naive after everything that has happened?" She grasped her shoulder and continued despite the brimming tears in the woman's blue gaze. "You're an expendable nuisance—nothing more. As long as Henry lives, he's a threat to Louis' throne, Marie has proved that, and Richelieu will not allow it. At best, Henry would be taken from you and raised as the child of another, his life endlessly manipulated by those who will go to any lengths for power—and there are no shortage of them here in Paris. You can never go home, Agnes..." Aramis pulled the woman into a gentle hold and Agnes sobbed quietly. "If you want any sort of life with you son, you leave—forever—now—and never look back."

* * *

"This is the place to come if you're lookin' for quick passage out of the country." Porthos announced, her arms spread.

d'Artagnan looked around curiously. Though he'd been living in Paris for a bit now, it was places like these, or the Court of Miracles that made this a strange and new place all over again, and filled with curiosity and danger. It looked almost just like a encampment/marketplace.

"Let's split up, shall we?"

He and Athos agreed, and spread as they walked deeper into the trees. People didn't even spare him a glance, and went about their business. He could see the tents were people homed, and the fires scattered around, both small and grand. He passed a butchers. And spotted a bond fire with a pig roasting on a spit, and the scent that wafted in his direction made his mouth water. He noticed stalls and people doing trade, there even seemed to be a blacksmith of a sort. Like the Court, this seemed to be a thriving hamlet of it's own.

d'Artagnan stopped, letting the bodies brush by him as he did a slow and intense look-about. He knew that Aramis didn't want to promote herself, so she would be hidden out of sight with Agnes. And he was sure, that it was purely by chance that he was standing right where he was, and looked right where he had when he did, otherwise he might not have spotted Aramis through the gap in some stacked barrels by a tree. Their eyes met, and even at the distance, he could see her curse.

"Porthos!" he called, spotting the dark-skinned woman a short distance away in the crowd. Porthos, in turn, alerted Athos. And though each three were different distances away from the woman's chosen hiding place, they converged, and arrived at the same moment. It was a shame that Aramis decided that they either couldn't be trusted or it was an act of keeping them out of it, but they would return the misunderstanding clear enough.

Agnes tightened her hold upon Henry as they three entered their little space, and Aramis put her arm out across the front of the woman, as if to block a quick grab.

"Good afternoon." d'Artagnan remarked to the Musketeer, thumbs hooked in his belt.

"Excuse us, _Madame_." Athos murmured politely to Agnes.

"I'm not handing them over to the Cardinal." Aramis told the woman straight and firm.

"Aramis," he scoffed, arms cross over his chest. "That baby is heir to the throne!"

"They could charge you with treason." Porthos added unhappily. "What are you thinkin'?"

"I made her a promise." She swore firmly, shoulders back.

There was a tense silence, and then Athos said clearly, and with a pinch of amusement. "Then we'd better help you."

Aramis chuckled in realisation at being taken for a fool, and the others grinned back.

"You didn't really think we were goin' to take the baby, did you?" Porthos chuckled.

"If you'd told us what you were doing, we might've be able to plan this properly." Athos added.

"Yes, sorry." The Spaniard at least had the courtesy to look sheepish.

"No, no." Athos waved her apology away. "Let's keep it suicidal—you know I like that. Oh, and you forgot this." She held out the woman's abandoned pauldron.

"Leave this lyin' around, and someone might think o' stealin' it." Porthos added.

Aramis looked it with a smile and strapped it to her shoulder one-handed, with an ease that showed just exactly how many times she had done it.

d'Artagnan drew Aramis' attention and leaned in, looking amused and almost triumphant. "Don't get involved. That's what you said. How's that working out for you?" he smiled, pleased as the woman glowered at him.

Aramis shook her head. "I say one thing..."

"It's always that _one_ thing that haunts us." He said with a wisdom that countered his young age. He patted her shoulder consolingly.

"Things just got complicated!" Porthos announced, staring through a gap in the barrels. "Vincent."

The others found their own notches and watched as Vincent and a few other men rode through. They quickly ducked out of sight as the riders rode passed.

"The bridge!" they heard Vincent order.

Aramis watched them silently for a moment, a sick idea drawing on her as the bridge came into play. Agnes' transport out of here was on the other side of that.

She drew the others aside, out of hearing of Agnes and told them of the plan.

d'Artagnan looked a bit pale after she finished. "Are you sure this is the best idea? What if something goes wrong?"

"There's always a chance that something might go wrong, d'Artagnan." Athos said. "Nothing in this world is predictable. _Nothing_." Memories of Anne flashed through her mind, and she shook the images away. She needed to focus. She turned to Aramis. "You're sure you want to go through with this?"

Aramis nodded, her expression tight as she glanced over at Agnes, oblivious as she cooed at Henry. "I am. I—"

"I could do it." Porthos said, giving her best friend at least some form of an out.

Aramis shook her head and looked back at her friend. "It's has to be me. It was my idea."

"Alright." Athos nodded.

And taking a deep breath, Aramis went back to Agnes. "I want you to head across the bridge and wait for me there."

Agnes looked confused. "But Vincent—"

"Leave Henry with me."

"Aramis?"

"If you walked out together, they'll be on you in seconds. He'll be searching for a woman _and_ a baby."

Agnes shook her head. " _You're_ a woman, Aramis."

She nodded. "But dressed like this, I'll be just like any other man." Aramis fixed the woman's cloak around her shoulders and grasped her shoulders. "I will get Henry across the bridge." She swore, looking the woman in the eyes. After a moment, Agnes nodded, and allowed the Spaniard to take her baby from her arms. She pressed a kiss to the infants forehead. "Go. Go." Aramis urged her, and pulling her hood over her head, the red-haired woman left her child and the safety of their hiding spot and walked towards the bridge where Vincent lay and wait.

Athos, Porthos, and d'Artagnan came to stand next to her, looking through the spaces in the stacked barrels, watching as Agnes made it across the bridge without much incident. Vincent snapped upon her, but seeing her with no child, left her to cross. The man didn't know what Agnes looked like, so that was a stroke in their favour. He had two men each stationed on either side of the bridge.

"So, how exactly should we do this?" d'Artagnan asked them, Aramis and Porthos glaring at Vincent along with him.

Athos eyed the corked keg in front of her and pulled the stopper. Amber liquid spilled from the hole and she stuck a cupped palm beneath the flow before re-corking it. The others looked at her, drawn by the noise as she slurped the liquid in her palm, sighing. "These barrels contain brandy." Athos remarked. "A rather good Aramagnac, I believe."

Aramis gave her a droll stare. "Athos, now is not the time." The other woman gave her a more-than pointed looked, and the Spaniard looked a but embarrassed as the other grinned in realisation as well. "Oh. I see."

"Am I allowed to say that this will be a bit o' fun, at least?" Porthos said as she and d'Artagnan hefted one of the smaller kegs onto their shoulders each.

"A waste, is what it is." Athos muttered to their retreating backs as the pair headed towards that grand bonfire that d'Artagnan had spotted earlier.

Athos looked to Aramis. "Ready?"

She took a deep breath and gazed down at the oblivious baby in her arms. She reacted instinctually for a moment and held Henry tighter to her chest, but forced herself to let go. If all went according to plan, Henry would be back in Agnes' arms and her love and strength for him would protect him from anything he might face in the world when he was older.

"Let's do this."

Athos gave a solemn nod and whistled the signal to Porthos and d'Artagnan.

"Now this fight—I'm ain't missin'!" Porthos grinned at the young man as she tossed her keg into the raging fire. Cherry embers flew into the air as it landed. He handed over his keg, and she lobbed that into the fire as well. The old man by the fire exclaimed and rushed from it as well. Others took up the cry and rushed away, d'Artagnan going to help along the stragglers. Porthos stayed her ground, and Vincent's attention was drawn by the commotion. He made eyes contact with the dark-skinned Musketeer and urge his horse towards the woman as he recognized her. Porthos grinned, her white-teeth flashing and she grasped the hilt of her sword—hoping that he made it to her before the kegs exploded. "Come on, you bastard!"

The boom made the horse reel, but he stayed his seat, and while his distraction was taken, she knew it was time to make her leave. The rest was up to Aramis now.

Agnes jumped at the explosion and fear hiked her heart into overdrive as the area on the other side of the bridge was choked with smoke. And then Aramis came racing from the cloud, her horse whinnying as it was pushed into a gallop, Henry in her arms. But her progress was halted as two of Vincent's men jumped out and barred her path.

It made not a sound, not a fuss, as she was forced to reign the horse in. Breathless, she wheeled around from the two men blocking her path, only to encounter two more, and Vincent seated upon his horse, trapping her.

"Hand over the child!" Vincent ordered.

"Or what?" Aramis challenged.

"I seize him by force." And his men converged on her like a mob. The horse stamped uncomfortably at the mob, and Aramis had nothing to defend herself with, her arms filled with the bundle and her hand on the reigns. And then they were yanking her from the saddle. She couldn't get her feet under her, and crashed onto the rail, loosing her cargo over side and into the raging river, nearly going over herself.

There was a beat of horror as the surrounding people processed what happened, and then Agnes was screaming. "No! Henry! No!" She ran onto the bridge, shoving the men aside, shrieking and sobbing for her son as she intended to leap the railing.

"No!" Aramis gave her own out and grabbed the woman.

"Henry!" Agnes strained against her, the knitted blanket being pulled farther and farther away. "I need to get him! He could still be alive!"

"No! No! Agnes!" Aramis finally managed to pull the woman from the rail. The woman hit at her as the Spaniard tried to pull her in. "He's gone. I'm so sorry..." and then she just went slack and sobbed into Aramis' chest as the woman held her. "What more do you want? Huh?" she demanded of Vincent as he lingered, watching. Finally, after a moment of glaring at him, Vincent departed, taking his men with him—no doubt to report to Marie.

Aramis tried to sooth her as best she could, but then Agnes pushed from her arms; her face flushed, tears running down her pale cheeks like a flood, the grief in her usually strong eyes was a physical thing. She turned away from the woman.

"Agnes..." _I swore no harm would come to you_ , Aramis tried to will her own tears away, _but I did this to you with every intention._ She didn't have a right to cry. She knew of a pain that was worse than any of the worst physical torture that could be done to a person. _This_ pain. What she had just caused Agnes to believe. It was a horrible, sick, and twisted thing. She just hoped that it the next hour, the woman could forgive her.

"Come," Aramis whispered, and urged the listless woman to mount the horse.

It was too soon. If Agnes could hold on just a little bit longer. Just until the Cardinal and Treville took care of Marie and Vincent. But every minute that passed, she could feel the chasm widen.

* * *

The Cardinal, when Treville brought him news of the infant's death, felt nothing but the sweet song of victory. And he made a entire play in making Marie think she had won, only to slap her with the truth. To watch her stumble away, after briefly showing her her lieutenant in chains, whimpering, was worth the fact that the death of the baby didn't ignite much in him but the base sympathy.

* * *

Aramis, Athos, Porthos, and d'Artagnan rode to the palace and met with Treville and the Cardinal. And it was agreed upon, that the scandal of Marie birthing Philippe in advance of Louis, was a fact that His Majesty, nor anyone else, need know.

* * *

The Cardinal stood in the dim space of his office in the palace church and took up the pages he had relieved of Duval's ledger, and watched in satisfaction as the flame ate them, burning from existence the only physical proof of twins born to Marie de Medici.

In that same moment, Duval sat upon a bench in a deserted hall of the same church and stood respectfully as a beautiful woman with dark hair, green eyes, painted red lips, and a deathly grace approached him. A soft groan left his lips as she sunk the blade between his ribs with a smile, and let him sink to the ground, dead. Behind her, two Red Guard entered, and dragged the body away.

* * *

"What more could you want from me?" Agnes asked, her tone lacking much strength as Aramis reined in her horse atop the hill in the field outside Paris, at the torch marker. "Why drag me here now?"

After their meeting with Treville and the Cardinal, the four of them had gone their separate way. Aramis back to the garrison, with a prayer that Agnes was still there, to pick her up. And d'Artagnan, Athos, and Porthos rode back to the Bonacieux house to retrieve Constance and her little guest.

It had been too dangerous while Marie was yet still in Paris, or if any of the remainder of her men that escaped, tried to take up Vincent's mantel. But with the Cardinal's confirmation of Marie's leaving, it was time.

Aramis dismounted as well. "I know you have endured hell. I'm sorry you had to suffer such a terrible blow." Tears welled in Agnes' eyes afresh. "I don't deserve this pauldron for what I've allowed done to you."

She shook her head. "Aramis—"

"No." The Musketeer stopped her before the woman could do something so undeserving towards her as apologize. "I need to apologize. I should have told you the truth from the beginning. I'm sorry."

"What are you talking about?"

"I promised no harm would come to you. But what happened..." she shook her head desperately. "If you weren't a convincing grieving mother, Vincent never wouldn't have let either of us leave. It was the only way I could see you and Henry having any kind of life together."

"What life?" Agnes whispered, and any strength that might have briefly returned, vanished like smoke.

Aramis could hear the pounding of hooves approaching and mentally doffed her hat to her friends' excellent timing. " _This_ life." She said, and directed her hat to the four approaching horses.

Agnes looked at them in confusion, but as they drew closer, and her gaze focused on Constance—or, more the wiggling thing held in her arms—her eyes widened. "Henry?" it was like she couldn't wrap her head around it. "Henry?"

The horses and their riders halted near Aramis horse, and the Spaniard approached Constance, gently retrieving the baby. She grinned as she walked back to Agnes, who cried out happily.

"Henry! Henry! Oh." She took him, holding him to her chest.

d'Artagnan glanced over at Constance, their horses so close together that their legs brushed, and saw the wistful look on her face as she watched Agnes reunite with Henry.

"You didn't want to give him back, did you?" he murmured.

She glanced at him. "Was it that obvious?"

He smiled at her and nudged her shoulder. "It'll happen—soon, I'm sure." And he was shocked as her cheeks blossomed rose. "What—?"

"Hush." She told him, embarrassed at the thoughts that his comment made flood her.

Agnes pressed kiss after kiss on her son's face.

"You didn't really think I'd take something so precious into battle, did you?" Aramis mumured.

She looked at him. "That was the point, though, wasn't it? But you kept him safe, just like you said you would. You delivered him to me as you promised." She looked fondly from her, to Henry. Any trace of grieve over her son, had vanished, and back was the woman that Aramis had come to know. Strong, brave, loving.

"Take this." Aramis tucked the full coin purse into the crook of her elbow. "Make a new life together—far from France." She fixed the woman's cloak around her shoulders in a caring fashion. "Philippe wouldn't want you be alone forever, Agnes." She whispered.

"I have my son." She smiled at Aramis. "I wish you could some with us," she said and Aramis was saved from saying anything as the woman looked over her shoulder at the two Musketeers, woman, and young man, waiting, "But you already have a family." She leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. "The shoulder guard's fine where it is." Her voice was watery. "Thank you, Aramis." And she turned and started to walk, away from them and Paris and to find her knew home.

Aramis didn't move and watched her for a long while until the fog swallowed up her slim figure. She turned back and mounted her horse.

"I think you're losing your touch." d'Artagnan remarked lightly as the woman wheel her horse around to face the others.

"Just for that, Charlie, you're buying the first round." Aramis said, and spurred her horse.

"The first," he agreed as they rode after her. "I'm not made of money, you know?"

"And you think I am?" she chuckled. "Sorry, fresh out!"

"I knew I wasn't the cheapest one 'ere!" Porthos grinned.

"No. You are. You just cheat and steal people's money."

"Hey!—it's still good money. Better us usin' it, than 'em. They'd prob'ly waste it."

d'Artagnan scoffed. "You mean on things other than booze and bets?"

Porthos made a face at him, but chuckled. "Still..."

"I still say we go back for a keg of brandy." Athos replied evenly. "It was really rather good."

Aramis, Porthos, and d'Artagnan roared with laughter it this deadpan reply, and Constance watched them with silent amusement and fondness. If it hadn't been for d'Artagnan, she never would have known the half of it. She gazed after the Gascon. Why? Why did she have to feel this way?

* * *

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~** **S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M ****eht**

 **y**


	7. Persuit 7: A Rebellious Woman

**a/n:** **Disclaimer: I do not own The Musketeers, just going to borrow them and their adventures for a bit.** **No copyright infringement is intended; just some good old gender-bending!**

 **I was really on the fence with this episode, as to whether I should gender-bend Ninon. Even as I write this, I'm still undecided.**

 **Episode Tag:** _Season 1, Episode 7: A Rebellious Woman._

* * *

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

 **Charl(i)es' Angels!**  
 **Pursuit 7 : **_A Rebellious Woman_

The people of Paris loved and adored their King and Queen, screaming and cheering as the rode passed. d'Artagnan felt pride and honour that he had been allowed the privilege to ride front guard along with Captain Treville and Porthos in parade through the crowded streets of Paris, leading the King's carriage.

Athos and Aramis rode paired behind the coach, their steeds at the brisk trot, but a man's shouts for assistance beyond the crowd, in an alley behind, drew their focus and they wheeled their mounts from the escort and through the packed crowd, the other Musketeers and Red Guard would fill the space they left as the parade continued on without pause.

There were five men, mobbing the first, who struggled to hold his saddlebags as they were wrestled away.

"King's Musketeers!" both women jumped from their horses and started pulling the thugs from the bearded man. Athos and Aramis struggled briefly with a man each, before enabling them unconscious, while the bearded man stabbed his main aggressor with a small dagger.

As the thug dropped dead, his two remaining companions grabbed the second, unattended bag, and made a run for it. Athos and Aramis instantly attempted pursuit.

"No! Leave it! Leave it." The owner of said saddle bags cried and stopped their pursuit of the other two men. "I have business at the palace," he said, breathing heavily, clutching his remaining saddlebag to his chest. "You're Musketeers. Will you escort me there?"

Athos shared a look with Aramis before she addressed the man with a nod. "As you like, sir. Sorry for the loss of your bag."

He shook his head. "I still have the one, its contents more precious than the other."

* * *

Constance stood among the crowds that lined the streets for a glimpse of the Royals, in the company of her husband's cousin's daughter, Fleur, and her friend Thérèse . She smiled as she saw d'Artagnan ride past, looking all but a Musketeer himself. He was that, and more, just lacked the uniform just yet. Her attention was distracted that she didn't notice Thérèse push from the crowd and run after the coach as it thundered passed.

There was shock in the people as the young girl leapt on-side the carriage, and a brief moment later, fell and was crushed underside to screams of the people around.

The precession was instantly halted, and the Red Guard pushed the crowd back as Treville, Porthos, and d'Artagnan doubled back. Treville ordered the King's carriage ahead, the other Musketeers under his command, as escort. Porthos leapt from her horse and skidded to the girl's side, a wordless moan leaving her. d'Artagnan watched as she rolled the girl.

"Did she have a weapon?" Treville demanded, still astride his horse, it irritated beneath him.

"Just this." The dark-skinned woman replied, taking up a small scroll from the girl's limp fingers.

"Let us through! I know her!"

"Constance?" d'Artagnan said in surprise.

Treville looked at the Gascon, and ordered the Red Guard to let her through before he dismounted.

"Oh!" Constance gasped, her hand to her mouth at the sight of the girl, dead and trodden on.

"What was her name?" Treville questioned.

Constance shakily knelt beside Porthos, and hand gripping the strong woman's shoulder for support. For an instant, the girl in front of her was replaced by a man with a slashed face before she shook it off. "Thérèse —her name is Thérèse Dubois."

"What was she doing?" d'Artagnan wondered softly.

"I'm not sure—" The woman shook her head helplessly, and he briefly reached across and touched her shoulder in comfort.

"An' this?" Porthos asked, unrolling the small scroll she'd found in the girl's palm.

With lightly trembling hands she forced still, she took the page and upon reading its contents, made all the more confused. "Fleur?" she wondered. "What does this mean?" she looked over her shoulder, but the blond girl wasn't at her side like she had thought. "Fleur?" she called.

The crowd pressed in, trying to gab at the sight of the dead girl. Porthos covered her body gently.

"Porthos, d'Artagnan—escort..." Treville started, gesturing at Constance.

" _Madame_ Bonacieux." d'Artagnan said.

He nodded. "Apologies. _Madame_ Bonacieux, home—and find out all she knows. I'll have the girl taken to the morgue, and I'll be at the palace to report to the King."

* * *

Treville returned to the palace with the letter from the dead girl.

"Was it an attempt on my life?" the King asked nervously.

"The young woman merely want to present this petition to the Queen." He held up the scroll.

"To me?" the Queen asked in surprise. "Why?"

"She was an orphan from a humble background." He said of what he was able to get from Constance before Porthos and d'Artagnan took the woman home. The Cardinal approached and took the scroll from him. "It has something to do with a plea for women's education."

"If she was an illiterate orphan, she could not have written this." The Cardinal skimmed over the contents. "It is misguided, but not unintelligent."

"You don't favour women's education?" the Queen asked coolly.

The man responded clearly. "I admire learning wherever it is to be found, but this amounts to an attack on the authority of the Church and state."

Whatever the Queen might have said in response was interrupted as a tall and beautiful blond woman burst through the door, with an attendant attempting to halt her passage.

"Stay out of my way!" the woman brushed passed the man. "I will address the King."

"Your Majesty, I am so sorry!" the attendant apologized profusely.

The Cardinal ordered the man away with a sharp gesture and the man was nearly prostrate as he backed out of the room, closing the doors. Treville shifted aside an inch, least the woman attempt to run him over as well. Though the Cardinal looked displeased at her appearance, the King did not.

"Comtesse de Larroque!" Louis grinned. "To what do I owe the honour?"

"Your Majesty." Ninon de Larroque bowed slightly in deference to the King and that was the end of it before she spoke. "I want to know why this tragedy happened. If your guards are to blame, I want them punished." She gave a scathing look aside at Treville at this remark.

Treville made no outward response to the aside.

"You knew this lunatic?" Richelieu exclaimed.

"She was sane as you or me." Ninon paused. "Well, me, anyway. She was the daughter of a servant of mine. She had wits and ability. I decided to give her an education."

The King stuttered. "A servant girl? An education? Sorry, I don't follow."

"It seems you have educated her too well." The Cardinal said dryly, handing her the note of previously clean and beige parchment, now marked with dirt and light smears of brown blood. "She wrote this and then was killed trying to give it to the Queen."

"Don't be ridiculous." She rolled her eyes. "She didn't write it, I did!"

Treville finally spoke. "Did you tell this young girl to give her petition to the Queen?"

Ninon didn't address Treville, but the Queen. "I merely told her that the Queen is a woman of wisdom and kindness, who might sympathize with our cause."

"I shall read it." The Queen promised quietly and the other woman nodded.

"Walk with me in the garden, Ninon." Louis smiled, turning to other matters. "I've often found your company as stimulating."

"Another time, Your Majesty." Ninon declined. "I am too distressed at present." She bowed and left just as quickly as she had entered. Treville knew she was going to be trouble.

"Did she just refuse my company?" The King was dumbfounded.

"I believe she did, Sire." Anne said.

"Is that allowed?" Louis wondered.

"Apparently, the Comtesse de Larroque believes herself above the normal laws and conventions of society." The Cardinal replied scathingly.

Treville was dismissed and shortly after, the Cardinal left and met with his Agent.

"The Treasury if bankrupt and the country needs a new navy. Ninon has the wealth to provide it." Richelieu said quietly as the pair walked through the empty hall. "Does she trust you?"

"She knows me only as the wealthy widow Madame de la Chapelle." Milady de Winter paused in amusement. "I am famous for my good works."

"Your job is to find something I can use against her." They paused at the bottom of a slightly curved stair. "These girls she encourages... is her interest in them healthy?"

She murmured coldly, "How like a man to think of that. I have no evidence to suggest otherwise."

"Then find some." He ordered her and started up the stair. He had been keeping his eye on the woman for some time now, her fortune the draw of his attention, and her actions party to his scorn. "Ninon must pay up or face destruction. I want every last penny from her."

"Mmm." Milady went back the way she had come, her pace casual and unconcerned with getting caught. Of her orders, the latter sounded much more appealing.

* * *

Thérèse Dubois was taken to the morgue, while d'Artagnan and Porthos took Constance back home. This matter no longer concerned the dead girl, but the very much alive, Fleur Dubois. They entered the Bonacieux's sewing room, which had seen many a Musketeer secret meeting over the last months.

"I can't bear the thought of Fleur alone, lost in Paris." Constance said, worry turning her stomach at the thought of what might be happening to the girl.

"We don't know that anything bad has happened to her." d'Artagnan tried to abate an unneeded fear.

Constance shook her head. "She wouldn't just disappear!"

"We'll find her." d'Artagnan ensured. "Whatever the reason, wherever she might have gone. I promise." He reached out and squeezed her arm comfortingly.

She nodded, knowing the Gascon would do everything in his power to see that his word was kept true. But that didn't stop her from worrying, especially after what happened to Thérèse. "Oh, what am I going to tell her father?"

"How is it that you know Fleur?" Porthos asked.

"Her father is my husband's cousin. I promised I'd help look out for her. I—"

Porthos nodded and gestured for the woman to sit. She crouched in front of her and gave her an encouraging smile. "'Ow long have you known our friend Thérèse?"

"A Month or so. I met her from Fleur."

"Okay. An' you're sure you don't know anythin' about that letter she 'ad?"

"Well, there is one thing…" Constance said slowly after a moment. "Comtesse de Larroque, she'd taken an interest in her. Thérèse was her maid. She was teaching her to read and write."

d'Artagnan shook his head at the concern. "Many enlightened nobles show a kindness to their servants."

"No, this was more than that." She looked between the pair, insistent. "Thérèse knew Greek and Latin—and even studied the stars. Fleur—Fleur attended some of the lessons as well, in secret."

Porthos stood and hooked her thumbs in her belt, and looked over at d'Artagnan. "Treville needs to 'ear this."

* * *

Athos and Aramis escorted the man from the alley, who they discovered, was a Father of the Church, to the palace. It was upon their arrival that they ran into Treville who had been with the King not too long ago. At the Father's seeing the King and Cardinal was sorted, Treville gave the pair a brief rundown of what had transpired of the parade shortly after they had separated from the guard to assist their man.

Finally, they entered the throne room with the King and Queen awaiting in their seats. Richelieu briefly conversed with the man as he walked him to the two royals.

The last time Athos had been here, she'd made the Duke of Savoy bleed. Aramis wished that she could have seen that man cower under her sister's blade, but she had to make do with the colourful rendition that Porthos always told her upon her request during some of her dimmer moods.

Athos stood at attention, and though the King's conversation with the Father and Cardinal carried back to them in the hall, she soon found it beyond her want of attentions as they spoke of religion. That was more under Aramis' hat than hers. But soon, her attention was drawn back as the King stood to dismiss the Father curtly with a: "I trust your time in Paris to be pleasant, however brief it may be." And Treville took the opening to make his approach.

"Your Majesty," Treville said. "A young woman, Fleur Baudin has gone missing—a friend of the girl who died this morning." The King sat. "We have reason to believe the Comtesse de Larroque may know something of her whereabouts."

"What makes you so certain?" the Queen questioned.

"We have a witness that admitted she regularly attended the Comtesse's salon and seem enthralled by her."

"That's very, very shocking." The Cardinal said wily. "We can't have the Comtesse abducting these young women and spiriting them away to her boudoir."

Anne narrowed her green eyes. "Whatever are you implying, Cardinal?"

"There have been ugly rumours, Your Majesty." Richelieu addressed the King. He paused. "It's all scurrilous nonsense, I'm sure."

Louis was quiet for a moment, serious lines aging his usually boyish appearance. "Handle this discreetly, Captain Treville. The Comtesse is from a very distinguished family. I don't want her upset unduly."

"Of course, Your Majesty." Treville nodded and bowed, before he retreated back to the doors, and collected Athos and Aramis on his way. "Collect Porthos and d'Artagnan. I want to know what Comtesse de Larroque knows of the girl's disappearance."

Both nodded and left the palace, retrieving their horses, they rode to the Bonacieux residence to gather their brother and sister.

* * *

Athos, Aramis, Porthos, and d'Artagnan entered Ninon's library unmolested. It was a large, round room, its walls lined with bookshelves, filled. Few fat pillars lined the edges of the room. The floor was pact with tables, most occupied by some-thirty women. There was a second floor balcony, which wrapped around the room, accessible by a winding stair.

"Does anyone here know the whereabouts of Mademoiselle Fleur Baudin?" Athos called without preamble.

As the odd foursome drew the attention of the gathered women, Milady, sitting at the single table aside of the room, was thankfully out of immediate sight of the intruders. She straightened immediately at the sound of her ex-lovers voice. The Cardinal had said nothing of the Musketeers interference!

Ninon approached across the floor, having already returned from her visit to the palace not to long beforehand. "If you have questions, Musketeer, address them to me."

Milady stood and discreetly moved further from view as Athos stepped forward. "Comtesse de Larroque. I am here on behalf of the King. My name is—"

Ninon interrupted her. "I know who you are. I've seen you often at court and thought how beautiful you are, despite your effort to try and hide in in those men's clothing." Her eyes scoured the woman black leather bound body openly. Athos' gaze flickered away, uncomfortable under the intense scrutiny. She hadn't been looked at like that in such a long time. "There is a melancholy aspect to your looks that I find intriguing—but it's probably only mental vacancy."

The faceless amount of woman scattered around at the tables chuckled lightly at this, and Aramis, Porthos, and d'Artagnan shared both surprised and amused looks at the remark.

Athos found the blond woman's face firmly and impersonally. "I hope not." She replied courteously. "But forgive our intrusion."

"I will not forgive it." Ninon replied coldly. "This is a place of scholarship, where women can enjoy each other's company without the crude attention of men." Her gaze pointedly carved to d'Artagnan behind Athos' shoulder, standing between Porthos and Aramis. "What is it that you want?"

"Mmm?" her attention had been drawn other where, like to how beautiful and sharp-tongued this woman was. The only one she had know with such a sharp tongue had been A—she shook out of the past and into the present. Something told her there was going to be nothing simple about this encounter. "Ah. We are looking for Fleur Baudin. She has run away from her family and they are anxious."

"Anxious to marry her into a life of domestic slavery, no doubt." She replied curtly and Athos scoffed in reply. "She's not here. You can go now." She dismissed the foursome clearly and with the flick of her hand, and turned away.

"Your broach." Porthos called after her, making her pause and turn back. "What does it mean?"

"It is a wren. A bird that cannot be caged. A symbol of hope and freedom."

The only Wren Porthos knew of, was the tavern in the seedier part of Paris, which she had frequented when she was still part of the Court of Miracles with Charon and Flea. But Charon was dead now, and Porthos hadn't visited the tavern or those parts since. Though she had run into Flea once.

"A symbol of your own dreams and ambition, I would imagine?" Aramis remarked.

"Ah! A romantic." Ninon turned her attention briefly towards the markswoman. "I see you haven't lost your womanhood by being in the company of such brute men."

"On the contrary," she said, "I make them gladly acknowledge the superiority of our fairer sex. So I shall accept the description." She twirled her hand and bowed, her brown eyes sparkling.

"Your charm won't work here. We are quite immune." Ninon retorted, though by the quiet giggles from some of the other women, that rang false.

"And what of you?" her eyes cut to d'Artagnan. "It's not very often a man walks into our presence here."

d'Artagnan hooked his thumbs in his belt. "Perhaps none have been brave enough to enter such a place."

Ninon demurred falsely. "Yes, scared of a woman with an education."

d'Artagnan's eyes widened at the false accusation directed at him, along with the near thirty pairs of eyes. He believed women just as capable as men, if not more. Aramis, Athos, Porthos, and Constance were proof of that. The station for which one was born, meant nothing. Porthos raised herself since a young child in the Court of Miracles, and now she was one of the best Musketeers in the garrison. "You think I could survive in my position and believe such a thing?"

"'E's right, you know." Porthos said, and slung an arm around the young man's shoulders.

"You think we would be tolerable of such a thing?" Aramis agreed. "Charlie here is as bright and capable as any woman." She winked.

d'Artagnan's olive cheeks turned ruddy with blush as the women around the library chuckled at this. While his time with the Inseparables and Constance had taught him many things, women would always be a novel thing to him. He remembered Treville's comment to him when they first met, and the Gascon confessed that the Inseparables were like warrior angels—his Angels—and it did and would ring true on several occasions.

 _"They'll eat you alive, son."_

And if he ever stepped out of line like Ninon was suggesting, they would—nothing left would remain but the bones.

"Cute—like a puppy." Ninon replied tersely with lightly narrowed eyes. "Have you taught him to roll over yet? Or does he still piddle on the rug?"

Instantly, the demeanour of his Angels changed at this scathing and derogatory remarks at him. Of course, they could jab such jests at him, for there was nothing cruel in their manner—but in Ninon's, the opposite rang true.

Athos held back the pairs scathing remarks with a minimal twitch of her black leather encased shoulder. "We are not here to discuss your false beliefs." Athos stated coldly. "We are simply looking for Fleur Baudin."

Ninon turned her attention from d'Artagnan to Athos, the main point of her wanted focus. She narrowed her eyes. "And I've already told you she's _not_ here."

Athos stepped from the other three and closer to Ninon. "Then you won't mind if we search your house?"

"On the contrary," she quipped with a raised chin. "I mind very much."

Athos inhaled and gave a small nod. "I could insist."

"Or you could take my word." She matched the other woman's steps, and drew close in front of her. "Am I right?" she whispered quietly, just between the two of them. "Is there an inner sadness that informs the beauty of your features? Answer me honestly, and I shall endeavour to allow you to search my house."

Athos was quiet for a long moment as she looked into Ninon's eyes, so close and locked with her own. The King had wanted no fuss made about this. So she endeavoured to make the vaguest response that she might, in turn. "We all have our deep secrets and hidden emotions, Comtesse. Allow me to keep mine to myself."

Ninon sighed. "A barely adequate answer. But I'm feeling indulgent. Follow me." She turned and started to walk away through the occupied tables. Athos followed, gesturing behind for the others to stay their place.

Milady watched, unnoticed. Her green eyes narrowed with both anger and jealousy as her gaze followed the pair until they were out of sight. Lifting a novel to her nose, she was able to cover her retreat unnoticed and unrecognized by d'Artagnan.

Porthos, d'Artagnan, and Aramis closed ranks among themselves further.

"I feel violated in ways I didna know were possible. " Porthos murmured.

"You?" d'Artagnan raised a brow at the tall woman. He believed that she was the only one who remained untouched by Ninon's barbed tongue.

Aramis nodded in agreement with her friend. "I didn't know such places could be touched. And trust me, I have every knowledge."

d'Artagnan scoffed and shook his head. There were so many things he could have said in response, but instead, he voiced one of the more interesting things to have happened. "Is that why Athos is flirting with her? Because she can touch all the same places?"

"What?" Porthos shook her head. "No way! She 'ates 'er guts."

Aramis shook her head in sympathy at her friend and reached around d'Artagnan's back to pat the woman in the same manner on the back. "Next we get the moment, I'll sit you down and explain the ways of your own sex to you."

There was soft amusement in the Spaniards eyes, and d'Artagnan tried to swallowed the laughter as Porthos pursed her lips and glowered at the other woman. And then the tall woman grinned and chuckled and the other two joined.

"I don't think I've seen Athos flirt before." He remarked, his arms crossed contemplatively over his chest.

"Mmm." Aramis nodded her agreement. "That's because it's a rare sight indeed."

"Athos ain't like us normal people." Porthos rumbled.

"It's in the eyes, you see?" and Aramis turned to face straight on at the unsuspecting Gascon with what Porthos always said in regards to her " _flashin' th' eyes."_

It was a manner which she periodically flashed without knowing in any manner of situation, that had as much chance of landing them into trouble as of getting them out.

d'Artagnan froze for a long moment as he stared into those smouldering brown eyes. He would admit, that each of these three woman were very beautiful indeed—made even more so by him _knowing_ them—but he thought of them in regards as nothing more than sisters.

He gasped harshly as he was finally able to tear his eyes away and put his hand over his thumping heart mockingly. "Never do that to me again—least I take you where you stand!"

Porthos grinned and grabbed him around the shoulders, shaking him enthusiastically. "I knew there was a reason I liked you—immune to what Aramis thinks is 'er charm."

"What do you mean, ' _think'?_ " Aramis narrowed her eyes. Porthos snorted in response, and then Aramis got a sly curve to her lips as she looked at the Gascon. "And that only because of the lovely dear _Madame_ Bonacieux."

"What?" d'Artagnan scoffed. "I don't know what you're talking about." He said unconvincingly.

"Right." She rolled her eyes. "One day, I'll get you to submit."

"Submit to what?" he asked worriedly.

Her only answer was a wicked grin.

* * *

After Father Luca Sestini was dismissed by the King, the Cardinal took him to his office, where briefly, they spoke of the Pope and the Church in a dry and medicore conversation. Until finally, Luca presented his single saddle bag salvaged from the robbery in the alley, for which he was saved from by Athos and Aramis.

"I have gifts for you, from the Holy Father." And he pulled out a small, ornate, round box with straight edges, and set it on the desk in front of the Cardinal. "The knee bone of St. Anthony of Padua, one of Rome's most precious relics." Richelieu opened the lid, and flicked aside the silk cloth covering to reveal the bone. "It is old, and by God's grace, immaculately preserved."

"So I see." He murmured.

"I had other gifts for you but, sadly, there were stolen on my arrival." Yes, it was a loss. But the knee bone would have to suffice in the circumstances. "There _is_ just one other small thing... the Holy Father has been ill. Thoughts naturally turn to the succession. There are many who consider you the outstanding candidate. The highest office within the Catholic Church is within you grasp. You must choose what to do next. This woman, the Comtesse de Larroque—deal with her firmly. The Church likes it when heresy is rooted out. A woman who openly defies God's laws? There is no other word for her."

"I am deeply humbled." Richelieu allowed as he processed what he had been told. "I will consider my options."

Sestini nodded and stood. "Perhaps you can pray to St. Anthony for guidance." He said suggestively before he turned and left, leaving the Cardinal to his meditation and his means to an end.

* * *

"There," Ninon replied as Athos followed her into another spare room. "You have searched every room in my house."

Athos turned to her. "I would have taken your word for it. It was _you_ who insisted on the search."

Ninon raised her chin. "Fleur Baudin is not here. I don't know where she is. Do you know how many husbands, fathers, lovers, brothers, come here looking for their lost little girls? It can never be that these women choose to leave of their own free will. It must always be that Ninon de Larroque has corrupted them."

The Musketeer thought her protest too much. "Thérèse and Fleur were far below you in status. They were not in a position to make a decision of their own free will."

"I view all woman as equal no matter what the circumstance of their birth."

"You have the money and the position to indulge such whims." She gestured. "Look outside your window and tell me everyone is equal."

Ninon slowly stepped closer to the other woman. "But you are not below my station, are you... Comtesse?"

Athos paused, not moving. "Thank you for your help." Was her only reply.

"What is it you want from me?" she whispered.

"You know what I wish to know." Athos' reply was just as level.

"My only answer is this..." And Ninon overcame that last bit of space between them, took hold of either side of her face and kissed her.

After a beat, Athos raised her hands to the smaller woman's hips and kissed her back. It had been such a long time since she allowed herself to feel such a tenderness. When they broke from the kiss, Athos still held the woman to her. Their connected gazes were intense.

"Come back and dine with me this evening." Ninon didn't so much as request, as her fingertip traces the strip of exposed flesh at Athos open-collared doublet and shirtsleeves where forever was hidden Anne's locket.

For whatever reason, Athos agreed. She'd only ever been with one woman before, Anne. And after such a betrayal as the woman had done unto her, Athos had sworn off any thoughts of a romantic relationship. Her heart could not take another beating. But there was something in her that wanted to trust and try with this woman, and she indulged herself.

* * *

It was later that night, that Milady was in the Comtesse's bedroom, helping her ready for her date with Athos. When Ninon told her of the kiss, it took all her reserved not to choke the woman with the diamond necklace she was currently fitting around her thin neck.

"Her face must have been the picture of surprise." She replied instead. When she had witnessed Athos leave with the others from the salon earlier, she had seen it in the bright blue eyes of hers.

"Why shouldn't I make the first move? I desired her, therefore I acted." She shrugged. "If I adhered to the normal costumes of the social norm now, what would that say about me?"

She wanted to lash out, to hurt this woman. But the Cardinal would be seriously displeased if Milady just killed the insolent woman. Milady chuckled. "I could never be so bold."

"You'd be amazed at what can happen when a woman takes initiative."

 _You have no idea,_ she thought. "I'm sure I would." She paused and decided to cast doubt. "Be careful, I know this woman. She will seek to trap you and steal your voice."

Ninon's gaze flickered over to her in the reflection of the mirror. "You know her? How?"

She gave a small shrug and shake of her head, and said demurely, "It was only a passing acquaintance." She sighed. "Between ourselves... Fleur Baudin, is she here?"

Ninon just smiled at her, not answering, before she turned back to the mirror. Milady burned with anger. She _would_ make this woman pay, and it was going to  burn.

* * *

Athos was left waiting in the library, empty of so many women as before, all returned to their homes at this late hour. She remembered the library her family had collected over the generations, but it was nowhere near as grand as what Ninon was able to create.

Ninon paused at the doorway, allowing herself to observe the woman who had caught her attention so. Her mind flickered briefly back to the vagueness of what _Madame_ de la Chapelle had told her of this Musketeer

Her friends were an interesting trio as well. They were intelligent, loyal, and beautiful—just as the woman in front of her. They were qualities she could admire.

"Don't look so worried." She mused as she approached and the other woman turned to her. "I won't kiss you again if you don't desire it."

"I'm better prepared to fight you off this time." Athos smiled.

"Yes, your counter this morning was rather mild." She returned the gesture. "Shall we dine?

"There is something I would wish to show you first." Athos told her.

Curiosity taking her, she accepted the unknown proposal. The Morgue was the last place she expected to be taken, and that was exactly where Athos took her.

She gasped as the armed woman pulled back the sheet to one particular body, and despite the damage done to the young girl, Ninon recognized her immediately. She looked away. "Why are you showing this to me?"

Athos watched her from the other side of the table. "Do you not feel responsible?"

Ninon fixed her with a steady gaze. "I gave Thérèse an education, clothing and food. I saved her from a life selling her body for survival. Is that such a crime?"

"No." She agreed. "But only if you did not encourage the reckless act that cost her life."

"That, I did not." She looked back down at the girl sadly. "I was fond of her." She briefly touched the bare and bruised shoulder. "I feel pity and sorrow, but not guilt." She looked back across at Athos with unshed tears in her eyes.

"I didn't mean to upset you." Athos apologized.

"Yet you did." She looked back at Thérèse . "This is the way we all must end. Our foolish hearts stopped. Souls utterly departed." She shook her head. "She was too young." She sniffled. "Please, cover her face."

Athos stepped forward and did so, and through the flickering candlelight, her eye was drawn passed Ninon's shoulder and to another occupied table. Intent, she walked around the table and Ninon. Her attention drawn to the black bag on the corner of the table with the covered deceased.

"Do you know him?" Ninon asked.

"A thief. He escaped me this morning." She called over to the coroner. "How did he die?"

The coroner approached. "No idea. I've had a dozen fresh cadavers already. He'll have to wait his turn."

"Look after this bag." Athos told him. "I'll send for it in the morning." He gestured to Ninon and the pair left the building of the dead.

"May I ask..." Athos said after they had been walking side-by-side in silence since leaving the morgue. As they neared the woman's salon, she felt as if she were loosing whatever chance they had. "Do you dislike men?"

Ninon chuckled. "I've had many suitors. Some really quite acceptable. But I believe marriage to be a curse." They stopped. "I will not submit to it."

"As it happens, I agree. But why?"

"You can understand what it means. I am a wealthy woman, but on my wedding day, everything that I own becomes the property of my husband—including my body." Her voice was hard. "I will _not_ be owned by anyone but myself."

"So, what they say is true?" Athos murmured. "You are a rebellious woman?"

Ninon grinned. "It takes one to know one. Does that frighten you?"

"No." Athos paused and looked at the woman in front of her. And she admitted to something only those closest knew the vaguest about. "But, I was in love once, and she..." She gave her head a shake. "Now, I'm done with romance."

Ninon cocked her head lightly. "It ended badly?"

"You could say that." She said bitterly.

Ninon reached up and Athos allowed the woman to cup her cheek. "She is the one that causes you such sorrow?"

Nothing in her expression betrayed a denial or acceptance of this statement, but the answer appeared clear. "We all have our deep secrets—"

"Yes," she whispered and reclaimed her hand. "And I shall endeavour to allow you yours. Perhaps one day, you will tell me."

"GET OUT!" Aramis' clear voice rang out in the night, and both woman turned to see the doors to the library being thrown open and the Spaniard tossing a senseless Red Guard out on his ass. She saw the pair. "You're just in time. We've got trouble." And she quickly disappeared to whatever chaos was happening inside.

"Those are the Cardinal's men." Athos turned to Ninon. "I knew nothing of this." And rushed inside.

Woman were running around senselessly and scared as several Red Guards continued to vandalize the place in whatever quest the Cardinal had sent them on. Needlessly throwing books off the shelve and tearing the pages from the spines.

"My works! Stop! No!" Ninon cried out in horror.

Aramis swept a Guard's legs out from under him, he crashed to the floor.

Athos quickly grabbed Ninon and pushed her back out of the chaos and against a pillar. "Stay here." She grabbed a passing Guard. "Where is your authority for this?" she demanded.

Seeing her pauldron, the Guard grabbed for her. She diverted his grasp, grabbed his elbow, and spun the man around, almost using him as a wrecking ball, bowling him into a passing Guard. If that was how they wanted to play this.

The Spaniard was in the process of kicking the downed Guard's teeth loose, when another grabbed her from behind. She struggled to get loose, but managed to buck him back against one of the stone pillars. His hold on her loosened, and she turned, and swing. She hit him once, but her strike rebounded the back of his head into the pillar and he slumped down to the floor.

These Red Guards were like ants!

One drew his sword and started to advance on the brown-eyed Musketeer.

Seeing Aramis reach for her sword, ready to draw, Athos realized the last thing they needed were several dead Red Guards on their hands. "Here!" she called to the woman, and tossed her a tome.

She caught it with a raised brow, but had to act fast when the Guard came at her with a downwards stroke of his sword. In an impressive sequence of moves, like an art form, Aramis manipulated the book in her hands and disarmed on Guard and knocking him out cold, to quickly spin on her heels and take out another.

Athos found a tome of her own, and though her handwork was not as fancy as Aramis' it got the work done, before she threw it away and decided to just use her hands. Why throw away something that she already knew worked?

A Red Guard charged out from the back of the salon, bellowing. "We've found them!" And he was dragging three girls in their nightgowns behind him. "Sleeping in a hidden bedchamber." The fighting ceased. "Cometesse de Larroque," he approached the blond woman. "On orders of the Cardinal, you are under arrest for the abduction of Fleur Baudin and others."

Athos turned to Ninon. "You said she wasn't here." She made no move to stop it as a Red Guard grabbed the smaller woman.

"She begged me not to tell anyone." She pleaded for the Musketeer to understand. Athos stared unfriendly back.

"Please! Make them stop!" Fleur cried as they dragged Ninon from the library.

"Sorry. I can't." Athos told the young girl, and she and the others were led out as well.

Athos could feel Aramis' piercing stare as they were left standing there alone, but her gaze only flickered to the other's briefly. She had been so stupid. Just like before. She'd let Ninon distract her. Draw her from the obvious truth, or lie as it was. She'd fallen for it, even as she had promised herself there would never be a second time.

* * *

Athos, Porthos, and Aramis rode in escort to the Monastery of the Holy Cross the next morning, with Ninon as their prisoner on His Eminence's orders.

"Why is she bein' tried 'ere?" Porthos asked as they dismounted in courtyard. Without word, Ninon was escorted away by some Red Guards.

"The Cardinal wants to avoid a public hearing." Aramis said.

The tall woman shook her head. "Does anyone really believe in witchcraft?"

"The accusation is a fine way to stop the tongues of outspoken women." She said disdainfully. "Everyone knows an educated woman is a dangerous woman, best to strike them out quickly, hmm?"

"She had the girls." Athos spoke for the first time in an unseemly long while. Hardly since the night before when Ninon was arrested. "She lied. She brought her fate upon herself."

Aramis looked at her. "You're being to hard on her. She was protecting the girl—not deceiving you, Athos."

Athos turned her blue stare upon the other woman. "What exactly were you doing there last night? You never said."

She narrowed her eyes. "Not that I have to explain myself—I was passing by when I witnessed the Red Guard swarm into the library."

"You just 'appened to be passin' by?" Porthos raised a knowing brow.

"Despite the sharpness of her tongue _Madame_ de Larroque's intelligence and passion interested me and I wanted to speak with her. And to inquire if I might be able to pursue some of her works. It is hard to find intelligent conversation these days," she said that last remark with a glance and smirk at the dark-skinned woman, who looked blandly amused.

Athos suddenly turned away and distanced herself several steps, and Aramis turned around to see Ninon being brought through for her appointment in trial by the monastery's jailer and several nuns on her tail. The Spaniard didn't hesitate in intercepting them and halting their progress.

"For what it's worth, _Madame_ , this trial is a mockery to religion." Aramis clasped the woman's hand. "The God I believe in stands for love—not cruelty."

Ninon welcomed the comfort, however little it was. "You are a contradiction, Aramis. The soldier who preaches love and a famous libertine who cherishes women and men."

Aramis smiled and took off her hat, hanging it on the hilt of her rapier. "We all search for truth in different ways." Making a minute decision, knowing that it was the right thing to do, Aramis removed the Queen's chain and string Cross from around her own neck. "If you have faith in your heart, take this. Please, take it." And she put in into Ninon's palm and curled her fingers around the Cross. "My God will not abandon you."

The jailer finally decided time enough was wasted and grasped Ninon's arm, pushing passed Aramis. Ninon's gaze found Athos, but Athos only met it at the last moment. And a second later, it was broken.

* * *

d'Artagnan watched from the hall in the Bonacieux house, flipping Vadim's coin between his fingers as Fleur returned from the Red Guards on the Cardinal's orders, sobbed into Constance shoulder.

Constance rubbed the girl's shoulder soothingly. "It's not so easy when you don't have money. We all just have to accept out fate in life."

"Why?" Fleur pulled back. "So we can end up like you, married to a man you hate?"

"I don't hate Bonacieux." Constance denied, and unintentionally, her gaze flickered aside and caught d'Artagnan's. She quickly turned back to Fleur. "I'm only trying to be realistic."

Fleur's father charged in after that, and after a brief, tightly muzzled row with Constance, Robert Baudin took his daughter away to participate in the trial deemed to condemn Ninon de Larroque, with the agreement he had made with the Cardinal privately.

"It's going to all right, Constance." d'Artagnan said and sat beside her.

Constance shook her head. "You can't possibly know that."

"Maybe. You're just going to have to trust me." And she let him wrap an arm around her shoulders and pull her against his side.

* * *

Four chairs sat upon a railed platform in the hall. The Cardinal sat in the center, Father Sestini on his right, and two others from the Monastery occupying the others. A section of the back hall was cornered off with portable railings for the gathering. The Inseparables and Treville were present in a small cluster after the railings. In center, stood Ninon, discreetly chained to the podium in front of her and a chair behind her respectively. Several Friars were scattered around the room. While a pair of nuns were stationed a few paces behind Ninon's shoulders.

Richelieu called for attention and began the proceedings. "Comtesse Ninon de Larroque. Confess your offences now, and spare your victims the ordeal of giving testimony."

"I cannot confess to imaginary crimes." She denied him a quick ruling.

"Do you deny you believe in Satan's magic? Now, I advice you to consider your answer seriously."

"And I advice you not to ask ridiculous questions." She replied and the gathered audience chuckled. "Witchcraft is just the belief of those too ignorant to know better, Cardinal. Just because a woman is educated and in full use of her faculties, does not mean the Dark Arts are at work."

Fleur Baudin was called as witness after that. The girl was lead forward through the crowd. She stopped before the Cardinal, but glanced back at Ninon. The blond woman gave her a firm and encouraging nod. Fleur turned back to the Cardinal, requested a glass of water for which Richelieu poured himself into his own cup and handed it down to her. Taking a sip, the girl handed it back and did the right thing like her father had told her to do. She spoke the truth.

"The Comtesse taught us things. Not just embroidery and sewing. Natural philosophy, the movements of the cosmos, the secrets of our bodies." In retrospect, she could have explained herself fairer, but by then it was too late.

"Your bodies?" the Cardinal repeated. "So, she took you and locked you in a secret room, and showed you intimate things?"

Fleur shook her head, her tongue frozen in horror as she realized what the Cardinal was saying. She glanced back at Ninon.

"You twist every word that comes out of her mouth." Ninon accused.

"Be quiet, or you'll be gagged."

"I was gagged the day I was born a woman!"

"Cheap sentiments." Richelieu scoffed. He turned his attention back to Fleur. "There's no need to be ashamed, chid. This woman has used you for her foul appetites. You cannot be blamed."

"You're making her work sound corrupt. You will suffer for this! You're the one who'll be judged!" Fleur screamed at him, finding her tongue too late.

"Take her away." He waved his hand and a pair of monks stepped forward and escorted Fleur back out of the hall. The Cardinal called his second witness. He knew from the start that he would have Ninon's fortune, brandishing his secret weapon. "The court will hear the testimony of _Madame_ de la Chapelle." He drank from the same glass he had poured for Fleur.

Milady came through the second door at the back of the hall, a lace hand-fan open and fluttering as she used it subtly to mask her face as she slipped in behind Athos back without the Musketeer noticing her. Her sly smile was hidden from view as the assassin passed the accused woman as she stopped before her proprietor.

Richelieu smiled. " _Madame_ de la Chapelle. Tell us of your experience at the Comtesse's salon."

Mirroring Fleur's actions from earlier, she glanced behind her at Ninon from behind her fan, Athos view of her blocked by a line of men. "Ninon did to me, what I saw her do to other women." She smoothed the timber of her voice, making it more innocent and gentile. Athos cocked her head at the sound of the woman's voice, her view of her barred. "She gave me wine and a bitter potion of some kind. I felt unsteady, as though in a reverie. I awoke in her private chamber."

If d'Artagnan had been present, he would have recognized this woman not as _Madame_ de la Chapelle, but perhaps as Milady de Winter, though as he didn't know that to be her name yet. This was the woman that he had first encountered his first day in Paris after his father's murder. He never caught her name. He'd slept with her, and woke the next morning accused of murder with evidence planted by her hand. He never thought he would see her again, only a month or so later, while he and the Inseparables were tasked with finding the whereabouts of Vadim's stockpile of gunpowder, did he come across her again. She's saved his life, him unarmed as two Red Guards cornered him, and she licked him with poisonous tongue. Coincidently, she had been in his life more times than that, though he didn't rightly know it. Stepping in upon Constance, and watching him from afar as she stalked Athos obsessively. And of her racing from the burning chateau on horseback with Athos still inside.

But Athos didn't know this _Madame_ de la Chapelle, nor had she ever heard of this Milady de Winter. She simply knew this woman to be her former lover and the killer of her brother. To her, she was Anne.

"My clothes had been removed. I remember spells... and incantations. I felt a deep and terrible shame."

Athos slowly started to edge through the crowd.

"Why are you saying these things?" Ninon demanded in confusion.

"This woman is a liar!" Athos screamed, pointing. "She is not even who she claims to be! She is a convicted criminal and a deceiver!" She suddenly charged forward, her eyes wild, but the Guards held her back. Porthos, Aramis, and Treville quickly tried to take control.

"Why does this woman accuse me?" Milady widened her eyes in fear. "Is she a friend of Ninon's?"

"Retrain her immediately." The Cardinal ordered, stunned by this unexpected outburst.

"She is not to be trusted!" Athos didn't understand why no one was listening, why they weren't arresting her. Why she was being the one restrained?

"Athos! Calm!" Aramis called as they three managed to get her to the side of the hall and press her against the wall.

Richelieu quickly called into the confusion. "The court has heard enough from this witness. Your are excused."

Milady quickly left the way she had come, boldly passing the Musketeers and making open contact with Athos, whom was still being restrained and unable to make after her.

"Athos, you're not yourself." Aramis lamented.

"It is she, who is not!" Athos cried. "Let me after her!"

"Not until you calm yourself!" she repeated.

And it was only until after Milady was long gone, and she wasn't a raving lunatic that she was allowed her release.

"Who was that?" Porthos asked.

But Athos turned from them and left without answer, exiting the hall but unable to go no further. As much as the unreasonable part of her wanted to go tearing through the Monastery for Anne, she needed to know of Ninon's fate. What had Anne been doing here? What was her goal in infiltrating Ninon's women's study?

"Cometesse Ninon de Larroque," Richelieu gave his judgement, "It has been proven in the sight of God that you are a practicing witch who has consorted with the Devil. The court finds you guilty on all counts."

The Musketeers were disbelieved by this outcome. Witchcraft?

Ninon was pale and in a shock of her own. Her knees gave out beneath her and she was forced to sit. "But... this is madness. I... I am not a witch. They do not exist."

"More blasphemy!" Father Sestini spoke up, outraged. "Stop her mouth."

"Wait." The Cardinal stopped him. "At a time to be determined, you will be taken to a place of execution, and your body will be burned to ashes." A sudden appearance by the Queen caused all to pause. "Your Majesty." All seated, stood.

The Queen stopped purposefully next to Ninon, her chin held regally high. "It is the King's wish that unless the Comtesse de Larroque confesses to her crimes freely and without torture, she be spared the death sentence." Anne took the other blonde's hand and helped her stand.

Ninon looked at the Cardinal and when she spoke, her voice was firm. "I have never consorted with the devil until this very moment. I am looking right at him."

Richelieu pointed at her with a sharp finger. "Condemned form her own mouth. Such language amounts to a con... amounts to a con... to... to..." He suddenly grabbed at his throat as he started to gasp and choke. The glass on the rail was flung aside and smashed to pieces on the floor as he collapsed.

The hall turned into chaos, and Athos was drawn in by the noise. Aramis and Porthos ran up to the platform as the Cardinal collapsed, and Sestini knelt at his seizing side. Treville yelled, upon Aramis' order for castor oil and mustard. Between them, Aramis and Porthos carried the screaming and struggling Cardinal to his chambers at the Monastery and threw the man onto the bed.

"Where is the castor oil and mustard? He needs an emetic!" Aramis yelled as she tore off her glove and stuffed it into the man's mouth, preventing him from biting his tongue, as Porthos attempted to hold his struggling form down. "Let me loosen his robes. It's definitely poison."

The King had made an appearance amid the chaos. "What if he is called to God's right hand?" he asked Treville desperately. "What will I do?"

Treville tried to assure him. "All will be well, I'm sure. The Cardinal's made of granite." Though at the moment, it didn't seem like it.

But this assurance did nothing for the King, because what he was seeing and hearing contradicted every word. In a bout of hysteria, and very un-King-like, he managed to push passed Porthos. "Cardinal, please don't die!" he grabbed the ailing man's loosened robes and shook him unhelpfully. "Please don't die!"

"Your Majesty!" Treville managed to pull the royal off the poisoned man.

"The emetic, at once!" Aramis said as a monk rushed in the room carrying a jug. Athos ran to him and took it, running back to pass it to Aramis. "Hold him!" the Spaniard took no mercy on the man as Porthos and Athos struggled to hold him still and Aramis poured the discoloured liquid into his mouth before forcing his jaw shut and making him swallow.

"Whoever has done this, I want them found." Louis told Treville and he got down on his knees and prayed.

Aramis forced Richelieu to swallow the mixture between screams several more times before she finally relented what might seem like torture to an outside party, but what would hopefully or not save his life.

The others left to give dignity to the Cardinal, leaving Aramis to await with her experience until the Monastery surgeon finally arrived. Of course, he just confirmed what the Musketeer already knew, poison. He gave the Cardinal something to help him rest. The monk complimented her good eye and quick thinking and application of the castor oil and mustard.

She was making her way back towards the hall where Richelieu had gone down, to meet Porthos and Athos, when her name was called.

"Aramis." The Spaniard instantly stopped and turned at the soft call, to find the Queen standing in the portico. "The Cardinal. He will live then?" Aramis slowly approached her and made an uncertain gesture. "He's been no friend to the Musketeers."

"No matter, we are all servants of France, Your Majesty." And she gave a light bow. Her brows flickered when Anne seemed to hesitate.

Her gaze flickered down to Aramis' open collar and the lack of chain that usually designed the supple landscape. "I did not expect to find my gift to you around the Comtesse's neck." Aramis was surprised at the moment and was unsure what to say and Anne seemed to take that in a different meaning than it was intended. "Is Ninon your lover? She's very beautiful."

Aramis shook her head. "She is a good woman facing a hideous death. I—" she paused and licked her lips. "No offence was intended towards you. When you gave it to me, you said it helped you through trying times and wished it the same for me, for it to help keep me safe." Without thinking, she grasped the Queen's delicate fingers in her own. "And it has, My Queen. I only wanted to comfort her in this horrible moment, as you have given me comfort."

Anne's cheeks turned a pleasant warmth as she looked into Aramis' beautiful and sincere brown eyes, felt the warm grip of her hand. They had not spoken one-on-one like this since she had given the woman her Crucifix and it was easy to get distracted around the beautiful woman. She cleared her throat lightly and Aramis instantly let go of her hand and took a step back. "Ninon is a good woman and doesn't deserve what the sentence given to her. Thankfully, the King has prohibited her the death sentence under confession forced."

"Yes, His Majesty is a gracious and generous man."

Anne nodded. "Forgive my mistake. Your compassion does you credit."

Aramis smiled at her, and gave another bow as the Queen passed her and continued on her way. The Spaniard couldn't help but watch after her for a moment before she made herself go through the door and up the stairs.

* * *

The broken glass crunched under Porthos' heel as she approached the bench and took the intact water jug in hand and inspected it for any traces of would-be poison.

"I don't think that to be the culprit." Aramis said as she came in through the back of the hall, through the aisle, and to her waiting sisters. "Where is the Comtesse?"

"They took 'er back to 'er cell." Porthos put the jug back and turned to her. "The Cardinal?"

"Still alive—just." She said. "I brought you something." And held out said token.

"A gift—for me?" Porthos gave a mock gasp. "My hat? You shouldn't have!"

"I'll keep that in mind, next time." They smirked at each other.

"So... Who 'as reason to poison 'im?" She asked.

"Who hasn't?" Aramis returned.

There was no answer forthcoming, least of all from their silent third-party, who had been all but absent words since her outburst during trial. Porthos and Aramis had a silent conversation with each other, for which Porthos lost and was forced to take whatever hit might come.

"Athos." She said, turning to the other woman. Athos glanced aside at them, that was something at least. "That woman, _Madame_ de la Chapelle," Athos faced them fully and her face was like stone. Porthos refused to back down. "Who was she?"

Aramis stood next to Porthos. "How do you know her? How did you know she was lying?"

Athos walked passed the pair, her hands clasped behind her back. She stopped in front of the grand arched window plaited with stained glass. "Her whole life is a lie." Came the ominous reply.

The two woman shared a look. That was usually the best they could ever expect from the Lieutenant.

"Whoever she is, she can wait." Porthos declared. "Right now, despite all, our job is to find out who tried to kill the Cardinal."

"It was clearly a witch." Father Sestini declared as he entered the hall. They all turned to face the short man. "You all heard her curse him."

"'E was poisoned, not bewitched." Porthos rolled her eyes, thankful that Aramis was not such a fantastic nut job in religion as this man was.

"Satan turned his blood into acid at her command. I've seen it before."

Definitely a nutcase. "We'll add Satan to the list of suspects." She said sarcastically and Aramis chuckled lightly.

"You laugh, and I... I shall pray for the Cardinal's life, because when men such as he are helpless against the power of evil—none of us are safe. I leave for Rome in the morning; Paris is no place for pious men." And he turned and started to make his leave.

"Your bag, Father." Athos called the man to a stop, taking a single step forward. "It was found in the morgue—with the body of the man who stole it. I'll see it's returned to you before you leave." Sestini just gave a tight smile and continued his leave. Athos watched after him with narrowed eyes.

"The only thing I know, is that we need to speak with Fleur Baudin." Porthos muttered.

They rode from the Monastery of the Holy Cross in Paris and to the Bonacieux residence where they knew that d'Artagnan would be with Constance and Fleur. But their questions of the girl brought no answers to light on the poisoning of the Cardinal.

* * *

Milady fed the Cardinal a glass of water, only able to make her appearance once the sun had fallen. The first thing from his lips was the question of whether it was her, and while flattering that he might think it her, they still had use for each other. After she cleared up his matter of dying with humour, he asked a question she had been expecting sooner or later.

"This Athos—what is she to you?"

"Let's not speak of it now." She replied clearly. "You must concentrate on your health."

"Whatever happens to me, I want you to extract this confession from Ninon. If she admits she is a witch, her entire estate will be forfeit to the Crown." Just the thing a girl wants to here. He reached for the small box at his beside, and Milady picked it up, curious, opening the lid.

Her expression twisted into a grimace of distaste. "Ugh, how disgusting. What is it?" she handed him the box.

He set it at his side, petting the smooth, old bone. "The knee bone of St. Anthony. I shall pray for his intercession." And he crossed himself with the same hand, fingertips brushing his lips.

* * *

Ninon sat at the small table in her cell, the Cross that Aramis had given her pressed against her lips in the flickering candlelight in prayer, when she heard the door open down the hall. She turned in her seat to see _Madame_ de la Chapelle—or whomever she was—standing before her barred door.

Ninon approached. "Have you come to gloat?" she glared.

"I wouldn't waste my energy." She replied condescendingly.

"There's nothing worse than a woman who betrays her own sex."

"Oh, I can think a few things." She smirked.

"You—you are everything that a woman should vow not be."

"What's the fun in a wolf hunting sheep?" Milady shrugged.

"Oh, but you're not a sheep, are you?"

She simpered in response. "It's women like you that make me want to do what I do."

Ninon narrowed her eyes. "But it's _her_ that you heart burns for." Speaking with this woman, remembering that conversation with Athos outside her salon and the Musketeer's reaction in court at the appearance of Madame de la Chapelle... the pieces fit quite smoothly, even if the picture dark.

Milady's face was stone. "Burns for her death."

"What was it that she did to you?" she gasped softly, shaking her head.

"... Burned the residue of love from my body." She shrugged simply.

"Why do you hate me?" Ninon demanded. "How have I ever hurt you?"

"You didn't—not really." She replied after a moment. "You're simply a victim of circumstance. And now, sadly, you must die."

The blond shook her head. "Not unless I admit to the charges, and I shall never do that!" she spat.

Milady narrowed her green eyes. "If you don't confess, the women of your salon will burn in your place. Surely you wish to save the lives of your accomplices in Satan?"

Ninon gasped. "You would do this? You would kill them, even though you know them innocent?" Milady indifferent air didn't change. "Who are you, truly? _What_ are you?"

"Mmm. Not even I know that anymore." She smiled. "Do you need time to think on my offer?"

"Offer?" Ninon scoffed. "You're a wretched thing."

Milady chuckled and smiled her score. "Admit you poisoned the Cardinal, as well. We might as well be thorough."

Not fifteen minutes later, the Cardinal, propped up in his bed with pillows, read the short, written confession of Comtesse Ninon de Larroque in the flickering candlelight.

"Should I wonder how you achieved this?" he wondered.

Milady faced away from him, staring out the plain paned window in his chamber. "No scar visible, I can assure you."

Richelieu nodded. "Order them to make a pyre. She will die at first light." He called to the guard at the door, who immediately left. "Do you ever wonder what is to come after this life?" he asked her suddenly.

"Never, the Kingdom of Heaven is a dream." She answered him honestly. "Our only life is here."

"That's a cold outlook you have." He sighed, a bit out of breath. "I've done terrible things. My own account with God is not yet balance. I'm afraid... that if I die... I shall go to hell."

Milady chuckled hollowly at this. "We're already in Hell. Don't you recognize it?" She'd been there ever since Athos order her to hang.

* * *

It was the next early morning that d'Artagnan, Aramis, and Porthos visited the city morgue with Athos on the woman's whim. The question of Sestini's reaction to his bag being discovered with a dead body not sitting right with her, but even before than, when she was here with Ninon and first made the discovery.

There was an argument of who-done-it between Porthos and d'Artagnan that was just leading them in circles. While Aramis and Athos were having a quiet and intense spout of their own.

"You would see her burnt at the stake?" Aramis demanded.

"Of course not." Athos replied. "But if Ninon is guilty—"

"She hid the girl at the girl's own request. That does not warrant a painful death such as this."

"The King has ordered the death penalty commuted. Ninon will not confess."

"So, just prison for the rest of her life, then. A weight off our backs, is it?"

"You know that's not how it is." Athos glared at her. "We are here to answer a different line of questions, not talk of Ninon." She turned from the woman, and Aramis allowed it. "Where's the bag?" Athos demanded of the coroner. The man pointed. Athos squatted next to the small table holding the tools of the trade and retrieved the bag from the bottom of the shelf. "Did you ever find out how he died?"

"Some form of apoplexy. He was having a drink at an inn nearby. One moment he was laughing and joking, and the next he was convulsed and fell down, dead on the spot." The coroner left to attend to other bodies.

"Just like the Cardinal!" Aramis gasped.

"Luca Sestini." Athos muttered and opened the back, starting to pick out the contents onto the table, d'Artagnan coming around.

Aramis went around the other side of the man's body, Porthos coming across from her. She looked at the body, then to Porthos. "Open his mouth.|"

"You open 'is mouth." Porthos shot back.

She glowered, then, stealing herself, opened his mouth and sniffed. "Ugh!" she jumped back, hand to her nose. "He stinks."

Porthos gave her a look. "Well, 'e's dead."

"Well—not like that." She shook her head. "He's... there's something bitter on his tongue."

Curiosity making her go for it, the tall woman leaned over the man and took a cautious sniff. She coughed, jerking back, her eyes watering. "Oh! Either this man 'ad disgustin' eatin' habits, or somethin's badly wrong 'ere."

The contents from the bag were slowly piling up on the table, but all there seemed to be were rolled scrolls and loose papers. He picked up a tiny note book and flipped through the pages.

"I know that smell." Aramis muttered. "It was on the Cardinal's breath."

"You were close enough to smell th' Cardinal's breath? That'll make anyone shudder."

d'Artagnan rubbed the pages between finger and thumb, before rubbing them together just as plain. "These pages are damp."

"Poison." Athos said definitively. "Wash your hands—everything's soaked in it." She pulled out a small glass bottle and sniffed it, with much the same results as Aramis and Porthos with the man's mouth, though her reaction was more controlled and contained. "This is where it came from."

d'Artagnan quickly put the book down, and went to wash his hands in the water basin by the head of the corpse.

"'E must 'ave drunk half the bottle before 'e realized it wasn't alcohol." Porthos said, as Athos put the bag down and went to wash her hands in the same basin.

"Sestini's still at the abbey." d'Artagnan pointed out as he dried his hands.

"The Cardinal's still alive." Athos said and ran from the morgue, the others following quickly.

Porthos paused on the stairs. "This is the Cardinal we're talkin' about. Why are we runnin'" Aramis just shrugged.

They rode to the Monastery at a gallop.

* * *

Ninon stood in her cell at the abbey as a nun came and gave her her death gown.

The Cardinal lay in bed, every rubbing the knee bone, as in the yard, a pyre was being built.

Dressed, a Guard took Ninon.

* * *

They four pushed their horses hard. And made it too the court, just as the Red Guards finished building the pyre to Ninon's execution.

"What is this?" Athos demanded of one of the Guards. "The death sentence was commuted!"

"The Comtesse confessed." The Guard shrugged.

Unable to do anything on it for the moment, the four of them ran inside and came across a gaggle of hooded monks.

Aramis grabbed the lead monk. "Where is Father Sestini?"

"I don't know." was the answer she received.

Across the way, on the other side of the building, Aramis spotted the man in question. "He's over there!" They ran to the other side of the walk and the another group of monks and started pulling the hoods off. Setini broke from the group.

"He's not here!" d'Artagnan growled.

"The Cardinal's room." Porthos said.

Sestini made it to Richelieu's chambers unhindered, but was forced to kill the Red Guard with his dagger who stood outside his door. He carefully opened the door and approached the Cardinal's bed, careful to not wake the slumbering man. Athos ran in lead, her pistol drawn. Sestini raised the dagger over his head and stabbed. Unexpectedly, the Cardinal grabbed his wrist and struggled to keep it at bay in his weakened state. Sestini's free hand scrambled at the side table and grasped the two-prong there.

"Sestini!" Athos shouted, bursting through the door and firing her weapon. She struck the man in the back and he grunted, slumping onto the Cardinal. Athos jerked the injured man from him and handed him off to a Red Guard, who took the dead Father away.

"You're late!" Richelieu gasped, as below, a Guard dragged Ninon to the pyre.

"But you know it was Sestini who tried to poison you." Athos said, remembering the struggle of a man not caught by surprised.

Richelieu nodded and struggled to sit up. "A sacred relic soaked with poison." He touched the closed lid of said box. "An old papal trick. I should have guessed it earlier."

Aramis ran in. "We're running out of time." Ninon was already being bound to the post at the center of the pyre.

"You don't need to kill her." And Athos did something she never thought she would ever do, least of all to the Cardinal. But she was desperate. She begged. She got onto her knees in front of the man and she begged. "Please! You can have everything you want and still let her go free."

Below, the pyre was earning its name—it caught fire from the torches that the Guards held it it.

"A glimpse into your own morality, does tend to make one rather less eager to hurry others to their own doom." The Cardinal murmured slowly. "I'm not a cruel man—just a practical one." He looked down at Athos. "What do you propose?"

Athos quickly spat out her idea, and the Cardinal agreed. She wasn't sure how Ninon would, but hopefully, having her life would down-swing the righteous anger.

"Stop!" Athos all but flew down that steps into the yard, the others on her heels. "The sentence is commuted! Cardinal's orders!"

They shoved the Guards aside and started to toss the burning bundles away. "Ninon!" Athos leapt heedlessly onto the pyre and slashed the ropes that held her fast. The woman in her arms, she leapt to the ground.

Ninon held her fast. "I'm not to die today?" she cried.

"Not today!" Athos swore.

Ninon pulled minimally from her hold and grasped Aramis' hand. "You're God did not abandon me after all."

Aramis gripped in back in reassurance, before Athos led the saved woman away from what had almost been her death pyre.

* * *

A deal had been struck on Ninon's behalf.

Officially, as far as the world would be concerned, the Comtesse had died on the pyre that day. Her lands, property and money forfeit to the state. The Cardinal allowed her a small income to live a quiet life somewhere outside of Paris. And on the terms that if she try and tell the truth of these events, her original sentence would be reinstated.

She had no other choice but to agree.

Before Athos lead her away from the other's once more, this time for the last time, she stopped in front of Aramis, and much like the Spaniard had done to her, she clasped the Musketeer's fingers around the returned Cross. "Take it, my friend. May it bring you as much luck as it did me."

Aramis put the chain over her head, and felt the Cross settle over her chest, her heart. She didn't realize how much she'd felt its loss until she had it back, the fear, that had Ninon's death sentence gone through, she'd never have gotten it back.

* * *

In a discreet road outside of Paris, the rain made light by the thick canopy overhead, Athos bid her final farewell to Ninon.

"What will you do now?" Athos asked.

"I was thinking of opening a school for the daughters of the poor." Ninon replied. "As I told the Cardinal: _my voice will never be silenced;_ but I believe I shall enjoy being a teacher."

" _Madame_ de la Chapelle," Athos started, she had been fighting with asking, but she needed to know. She was embarrassed by how she had acted during the trial, but was unable to change what had occurred. Thinking was hard to come straight when Anne was involved. "Did she ever tell you anything about herself?"

"Very little." She admitted. "She visited me in my cell."

"She did?" Athos straightened.

Ninon nodded. "She's the one that broke your heart."

Athos' expression was tight and her gaze stared over the blonde's shoulder at her awaiting cart. "I wish I could say in another life, in another time."

Ninon reached up and cupped her cheek gently and the Musketeer let her. "Watch out of her, Athos. She is dangerous and cunning. She has the Cardinal's protection. And seeks to harm you in anyway she can. Her heart is poison and I fear she will do irreparable harm before she is finished."

"She stole my heart and murdered my brother." Athos replied. "What more could she do?"

"More. So much more." Ninon gasped, shaking her head, worry swimming in her gaze. "You are not of yourself, Athos. You have people who care for you deeply, and you them. You are not impervious—you cannot be."

"I can handle her." Athos swore.

Ninon sighed and gaze at the blue-eyed soldier for a long moment. She had said her piece, there wasn't much more she could do. "Just be careful." She whispered, and leaned up onto her toes and kissed the other woman, long and lasting.

Athos let herself fall into the warmth against her lips, the feel of the other woman's cloaked body pressed firmly against hers. Ninon sighed sadly as she pulled from the kiss, but not the woman. "I could have loved someone like you."

"If circumstance were different, perhaps." Athos agreed.

"Mmm." Ninon stepped away from her. "You would make a very interesting man, did you know that?"

"Coincidently," she wryly, walking the woman over to the cart, "you're not the first to say. Though, I'm starting to think I should take offence. It's not usually something a woman enjoys to hear."

"But you are not a usual woman." Ninon chuckled lightly as Athos helped her onto the front bench of the cart, and the Musketeer stepped back as the driver whipped the horse into action and the cart lurched to a start. Ninon looked back over her shoulder for a long moment before turning front.

Athos sighed as she stared after the woman long after the cart disappeared around the bend in the road a ways down. She lifted her hat and ran her fingers through her long straight locks.

It was just another thing Anne seemed to have stolen away from her. A chance.

Would she forever suffer? she wondered. Would there be no end? But there would be, at the foregone conclusion of their deaths. Even if Anne got her wish—Athos' death—Athos didn't think she would find the happiness she thought she would. And Athos, having thought her former lover dead already for the last five-years, had been in a constant turmoil and ache—one that had not changed, but intensified since that night at the chateau when she discovered Anne's life upon trying to murder her in revenge.

Athos still didn't know what Anne's means-to-an-end were, but she could only hope with not much credence, that her sisters and brother wouldn't be caught in the crosshairs. Wishful thinking on her part—naive—for already her brother was entangled with a woman he knew no substance of, caught in her twisted games of revenge—neither would know, until perhaps too late.

* * *

d'Artagnan was sitting at the kitchen table in the Bonacieux residence when Fleur burst in and flung herself into Constance's arms. After all that had happened to the young girl, her father planed to marry her off to a forty-year-old widower who owned a butchers stall, apparently a rather great "catch". But it seemed, since now and than, Robert had changed his mind—and was even willing to let Fleur continue her education. The young girl was of the belief that before her departure, Ninon had spoken with the man, but d'Artagnan knew instantly from Constance's too-bright smile towards the girl as she explained this theory, that it was Constance who had convinced Robert.

"Well, I'm glad that Robert had a change of heart on the matter." Constance told d'Artagnan after Fleur left just as fast as she had come, the smile dropping from her face as she turned to the sink and window. She didn't see the harm in letting the girl have the belief that it was Ninon, her hero, who had convinced her father.

His fingers drummed on the clothed tabletop as he shook her head and said gently, "It was _you_ who went to Baudin, not Ninon." Constance didn't reply, and he stood, stepped towards her turned back. " _You_ pleaded for Fleur."

"I don't know what you're talking about." She denied.

He smiled and chuckled. "You are the finest woman I've ever met. I don't believe there's a more generous soul in all of France."

Constance turned and stepped to him. "Stop that." And she put her fingers over his lips, stopping more words from flowing out those beautiful receptacles. He reached up and delicately took her finger, pulling her hand away but keeping a hold of the limb, moving his hand so he caressed it. "You're embarrassing me." She whispered.

His brown eyes refused to release her. "And what if I want to embarrass you?" he whispered.

"Hmm." She blinked, distracted by the soft circles the pad of his thumb was rubbing on her palm.

d'Artagnan played with her fingers, gulping, suddenly shy. "Why... Why shouldn't I tell you that I love you?"

"d'Artagnan—" she shook her head.

"No." He ploughed on, "I admire and respect you, Constance. You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my life."

"Say that again." She gasped.

"Um..."

"The first part, you idiot." She said, too enthralled to roll her eyes.

He swallowed, and his look was so intent, so passionate. "I love you." And then his brows did that little flicker thing, and suddenly they were kissing, desperate. He pushed her back against the sink, food and dishes clattered to the floor. Their actions were heated as they attempted to undress each other. This wasn't the first time that they had kissed, but it was the first _real_ time they had kissed. She was a married woman, but she wouldn't be the first to step out on a loveless marriage. "Oh, God. I love you!" he gasped against her lips. He didn't want to ever have to let her go. To do so, would tear his heart from his chest.

* * *

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

 _So, I decided to keep Ninon a woman, because I thought that the jealousy of Milady might be more felt if Athos started to connect with a woman, when Milady was the only one she'd ever been with. And I thought that with Ninon as a woman, her and Athos would be able to say those truthful things to one another more bluntly._

 _y_


	8. Pursuit 8: The Challenge

**a/n:** **Disclaimer: I do not own The Musketeers, just going to borrow them and their adventures for a bit.** **No copyright infringement is intended; just some good old gender-bending!**

 **Note: New content added to second to last scene!**

 **[Pronounced:** Alic = Al-ICK or Alec **]**

 **Episode Tag:** _Season 1, Episode 8: The Challenge._

* * *

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

 **Charl(i)es' Angels!**  
 **Pursuit 8:** _The Challenge_ —

They rode into Paris with an assortment of bruises from their recent task. Their claimed prisoner, Labarge, a beast onto himself—it had taken all four of them to capture the man, and only then because of Porthos' unnatural strength. Now, they lead him towards lockup.

But it wasn't only bruises that marked d'Artagnan. Though the rough encounter with the hulking man that Porthos had bound in ropes and tethered, had lead them to Gascony, it was outside of Lupiac they had made their capture. He hadn't been back to Gascony since he had decided to stay on in Paris and train with the Inseparables to become a Musketeer.

Though he had lacked time to make visit on his father's farm. Despite the man's death, d'Artagnan still called it that, because thought law dictated that the property was now his own, he felt it not his place. He'd never been a farmer. Though he could do the manual labour that it entailed, and he had no fear of the animals and handled them with confidence, he wasn't a farmer at heart. Had he returned to the farm after Alexandre's demise instead of venturing into Paris, it would have been a tether on his heart.

But what he found heart in, was that because of them, Labarge would not be setting fire to peoples lively-hoods for the unjustified taxes that plagued their land. High taxes of which had sent the two d'Artagnan men to Paris in the first place.

When a group of five Red Guards approached them, d'Artagnan was sure that disaster was going to be upon them within the next several minutes. They drew their horses to a halt. Those in the streets already felt the taut tension between these two groups—the animosity between them a great known in Paris.

Captain Trudeau of the Red Guards, the only man upon horse, spoke. "I have a warrant from the Cardinal, for the immediate arrest of your prisoner—Martin Labarge."

"He's already under arrest for the murder of _two_ Musketeers." Aramis exclaimed. Rumour had reached Paris of Labarge's dealings in Gascony, and Treville had sent two of his men to investigate, when they never returned, he then sent his Inseparable's and their fourth.

"Ah. Well, you're to hand him over to us for questioning." Trudeau said, and handed down his Lieutenant the Cardinal's orders and seal.

"It's not safe here." Athos replied, taking the scroll Lavoie handed her. She broke the wax seal and read the contents. She gave a minimal nod to the others. "I want it noted he's a very dangerous man."

"So noted." Trudeau said with scorn, no doubt believing it just the hardships of women.

Athos narrowed her blue eyes lightly. "Very well." She nodded to Porthos, who shook her head, gathered the length of rope leading to Labarge and handed it over to Trudeau.

"Don't say we didn't warn you." d'Artagnan huffed.

Trudeau gave him a tight smile that was no more than a twist of the lips, before he turned his mount around. "Come on, Labarge!" he kicked the large man to move his pace.

"This'll be entertainin'." Porthos had time to mutter, before Labarge gave a deep scream and pulled back on the length of rope that bound him with a strength that rivalled even Porthos'.

The horse whinnied frantically as it was forced backwards before finally being overcome by momentum, and fell to the ground, taking Trudeau with it. Labarge tore free of his bondage. Lavoie leapt over the fallen horse and downed Captain, his sword drawn. Labarge ducked under the strike and punched him in the stomach. Two more Guard came at him, coming in from either side. Labarge leapt back and the two Guard narrowly missed slicing into each other. Labarge took advantage of their fumble and punched one. The other struck out, but the big man swept him feet from under him.

"I think they need our help." Athos remarked.

"Aw, they're just to shy to ask!" Aramis grinned cheekily.

"Perhaps we should leave it another minute, let 'em learn a lesson." Porthos said.

"They're Red Guards," d'Artagnan scoffed. "You'd have a better chance of teaching a dog to meow." Aramis and Porthos chuckled.

They leapt from their horses and made slow approach. Labarge punched a Guard and grabbed his shoulders, meeting heavy knee with solar plexus.

"Stay out of this, damn you!" Trudeau finally managed to get himself from under his horse and onto his feet. "I'll not have _women_ do a real man's work."

Porthos sneered. "Can't we let 'im tear 'em apart?"

Athos shook her head. "It wouldn't be proper etiquette."

"Always the Comtesse, hmm?" Aramis chuckled and the other woman gave her a twitching glare.

Labarge faced the Captain, who lunged at him with sword. Labarge grabbed the blade with gloved hands and snapped the flimsily-made blade over his knee. He punched Trudeau in the face before he turned to face the approaching Musketeers and trainee. Trudeau lunged at him from behind, but Labarge turned and grabbed the man around the throat in a clutch of muscled arms. He continued to move, turning, as Lavoie brought his sword down with a cry. But instead of slashing open Labarge's back as intended, he split his Captain near stem-to-stern.

Frozen in horror, Lavoie collapsed under the weight of his dead Captain as Labarge shoved Trudeau onto him. He had a wide grin on his face as he flipped the top of the broken sword in hand. "Come on!" he screamed and rushed the Musketeers.

He slashed at Porthos, who was closest. The tall woman dodged and came back with a hard punch. Labarge barely stumbled and stabbed. Porthos was able to deflect the otherwise deadly blow and boxed him around the ear, making his drop his broken blade. Labarge swung at her, punching her in the chin and forcing her back.

Before he could continue the assault on the woman, Athos grabbed the man from behind. Labarge turned and swung. Athos ducked and struck the man in a stomach like rock. He laughed and before he could bring interlocked finger upon the woman's head Aramis intervened, punching the man in the kidney and then face, forcing him away and into d'Artagnan's strike. The Gascon put his weight behind it, pushing off the ground. Labarge stumbled back from the blow and Aramis clamped her smaller body around his left arm, while d'Artagnan quickly grabbed the other. On her feet, Athos power-kicked him in the gut, forcing the air from his lungs. Porthos jumped on his back, arm wrapped around his throat, even as the huge man started to struggle. Athos quickly added her weight to the game, throwing herself at the man, and it took the four of them to pull the man to the ground.

Among the doggie-pile, the man suddenly ceased struggle after Porthos dealt him a punishing blow to the temple from the rounded butt of her pistol. Aramis quickly bound the unconscious man, wrist as well as elbows bound behind his back. It would be a true and near impossible struggle to escape this time.

Lavoie finally managed to extract himself from under his Captain, his Red Guard's uniform painted a even deeper red by the blood covering his front. "Musketeer scum!" he screamed.

They four crowded around Labarge's body, looked over at the Lieutenant in surprise as he pointed his sword at them. "It's your fault that Captain Trudeau is dead! He told you not to interfere!"

They stood as the other three Red Guards took position on either side of Lavoie.

"Your Captain died at your own foolish hand." Athos replied coldly.

The Musketeers drew their own sword. d'Artagnan ignored the throb of his hand as he gripped his hilt. Then they charged, steel clashing upon steel as the two companies brawled in the street.

* * *

Of course, as was always the case. It was Captain Treville who had to deal with the aftermath of his soldiers' escapades. The fight had been short-lived, but the damage was still done. And their trouble was brought to the King's attention. Treville had no choice but to sacrifice Labarge to the Red Guards.

"I am sorry for the loss of your soldier, Cardinal. But Captain Trudeau was given fair warning on the matter." Treville said.

"Labarge is a regional Intendant." Richelieu replied. "You had no business arresting him without coming to me first."

Treville seethed. "Your Intendant is a violent criminal, who subjected Gascony to a reign of terror—he _killed two_ of my Musketeers!"

"As was my Red Guard."

Treville stopped and turned to him. "Your own man killed his Captain. The only reason no one else was harmed, was because my Musketeers were there."

The Cardinal raised his chin and turned to the King. "It is true Labarge exceeded his authority, but I was in the process of recalling him to Paris before Captain Treville so recklessly sent his men to interfere."

"The Red Guards put innocent lives at risk in their foolhardy attempt of bringing in an already arrest man."

Richelieu sneered at him. "You're Musketeers are lucky my Guards didn't kill them."

"Oh, really?" Treville scoffed and spat. "You know what?" It irritated him to no end of Richelieu's insolence when it came to his men's lack of honour and skill. He needed to be taught a lesson at the true integrity of a soldier. "Any of my Musketeers could thrash any of your Red Guards at any time!"

The King grinned at the exchange. "A 1000 livres Captain Treville is right. Each side to choose his champion in a contest to settle the matter." Both men looked at him in surprise. "What do you say, Cardinal? Do you accept the wager?" he drank from his glass of wine as he awaited answer.

Richelieu narrowed his eyes and smiled. "Why not make it 2000 livres, Your Majesty?"

Louis lips stretched into a impish grin.

Treville hadn't meant for such an outburst, but at the King's agreement, it seemed a competition was struck. Finally, everyone would know. The Red Guards were overly ordinary. They had the run of the city, but their skill and civility was mediocre at the best of days.

* * *

d'Artagnan clenched and unclenched his right hand experimentally as he made his way to the Bonacieux residence from the garrison. Aramis had noticed upon their arrival and ordered inspection. One of his knuckled had been dislocated after his strike of Labarge, and his hand bruised, but the end result had been worth it.

He had found the injustice of what Labarge had done to his fellow Gascons building, and it had been a relief to have a brief outlet. Aramis had popped the joint back into place, and bade him put his abused hand in a basin of cold water to let the swelling down.

But any discomfort fell from thought the closer he drew to Constance. He had finally announced his true feelings for the woman hardly a month beforehand. And she returned his sentiments. They had been together as much as two people can be, when one was still married. It wasn't ideal, but their happiness in each stolen embrace and kiss afforded their acceptance.

He was finally drawing closer to fulfilling his dreams. Becoming a Musketeer and gaining Constance for himself. As soon as he was able to gain commission from the King and become a Musketeer, he just knew everything else would fall into place. Constance would leave Bonacieux and they could be together truly, out in the world instead of hidden. But he was as content as he could be with the slow progress of things as they were.

She was in the kitchen, standing at the counter and kneading dough for bread when he came behind her and slipped his arms around her waist, hugging her from behind. "Did you miss me?" he kissed the side of her pale neck.

She giggled. "Not at all!"

"Mmm." He didn't much believe her.

She set her dough down and wiped her hands on a towel and turned in his arms. Wrapping her arms briefly around his neck, she kissed him. "This is so wrong." She sighed dispassionately, gazing into his eyes as she played lightly with his dark, silky locks. "I just wish it felt wrong. At least then I would know what to do."

He caressed her cheek and pressed his lips to her forehead. "If you've changed her mind..."

"Never." She grasped his hand on her cheek and he couldn't stop the involuntary eye twitch. "Your hand!"

"Minor injury." He smiled.

She rolled her eyes lightly in reply to his answer and just pressed her lips tenderly to his bruised knuckles as they heard the back door open. They quickly parted.

Bonacieux entered, taking off his hat and setting it on the kitchen table. He paused as he caught sight of the pair. His eyes narrowed as he looked at the Gascon. "Your rent is over-do."

"Yes, my apologies for that, _Monsieur."_ d'Artagnan took a step forward demurely. "I haven't received any income from my father's farm for the last two months."

"Well, you've put yourself in a reckless position." Jacques remarked, his eyes flickering. "You are a farmer who neglects his lands and a would-be Musketeer with no commission in sight." d'Artagnan's jaw tightened subtly at the sore subject but made no other reaction. "I would point out your folly, but... perhaps it's not necessary." He murmured condescendingly and walked from the room.

Constance looked at him with kindness. He was struggling to control his expression. He clenched his bruised hand white-knuckled as a distraction. "I should get back to the garrison," he said. "Treville's sure to have returned by now, and who knows his mood after what's happened this morning with Labarge and the Red Guards."

Constance nodded and he left without allowing her any words. He wasn't sure he wanted to hear what she might of had to say. He was both humiliated and embarrassed—and by that weasel of man, no less.

The walk from the Bonacieux house to the garrison was one of need and necessity. By the time he arrived, his surface had at least cooled.

"Gentlemen!" Treville called to his gathered Musketeers, having returned from the palace. He stood middle-stair. "Finally we have the opportunity to prove what we have always known. That technically..."

d'Artagnan shifted through the gathered men and stood next to Athos near the front, Aramis and Porthos in front of them, both grinning. "What's going on?" he murmured.

"There's to be a competition between the Musketeers and Red Guards." Athos said quietly.

Porthos shifted back on her feet lightly. "Yeah. Each side will choose a champion, to settle th' issue of which is greater." This wasn't quite the reaction he had been expecting on Treville's return, but he wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Aramis hook her head. "As if we're in doubt."

"How will the champion be chosen?" d'Artagnan called to Treville boldly, his arms crossed lightly over his chest.

"There will be competitive trials," Treville answered. "And a 30 _livre_ _s_ entry fee." That caused murmurs of concern and groans to flitter through the crowd.

Porthos' grin dropped. "Thirty?"

"It forms a prize purse." He explained. "Winner takes all." That got their spirits back up again.

"Why didn't you say so before, huh?" Porthos grinned.

Treville narrowed his expression. "This isn't about money. This is about the honour of the Musketeers."

d'Artagnan's fist tightened in the crook of his elbow, and nodded. That was one of the reasons why he wanted to become a Musketeer. And this—this was a chance presenting itself to him. It was a sign. He wasn't going to be a would-be any longer.

* * *

The Inseparables sat around the table in the yard afterward, Aramis doling out the wine. "Well, ladies, may the best woman amongst us win."

"Those of us who are allowed to complete." d'Artagnan spat in contempt where he slumped upon the bottom of the stairs, a dark cloud making him foul. Apparently, he wasn't a Musketeer, so therefore, he couldn't technically represent them in the competition with the Red Guards.

"You're a Musketeer in all but name, d'Artagnan." Athos drank her wine, looking over at the Gascon.

His right fist clenched on his thigh. "So everyone points out at every turn." Yes, it seemed to be a humiliation that every person seemed intent on pointing out. Treville, Athos, Marsac, Bonacieux...

"All you lack is the King's commission." Athos continued over the interruption, though the anger in the statement did concern her. "Go to Treville, _ask_ him to participate, I'm sure he'll allow you."

"And mind that hand." Aramis warned him, pointing with her cup as she sat next to Athos. "You keep on like that, and the discomfort will last longer. Don't make me come over there." d'Artagnan exhaled and forced his hand flat against thigh.

"Now there's just th' thorny issue of the entry fee." Porthos said, drinking her own from where she sat across from Athos and Aramis. "Anyone got it?"

Aramis sighed. "My pockets are empty and the cupboard is bare."

"Yeah, I just pawned my cupboard."

"Porthos, my friend," Aramis' eyes brightened as she looked across at her friend. "I think it's time for us to go fishing for a patroness." Porthos raised a pointed brow at the woman. "What?" the brow stayed its place. "Fine." She sighed in disappointment. "You can't blame me for trying. Patro _n_."

She grinned. "If needs must." They both chuckled and clinked glasses. "To our future affairs!"

"Mmm. I so do love our jobs!"

"Just try not to drag along any angry husbands or wives." Athos deadpanned.

"I won't make promises I cannot keep." Was the Spaniards answer with a smile that was way too pleased. She and Porthos drained their glasses and departed.

* * *

Porthos had followed Aramis' lead, but was starting to worry and wonder about her friend as they ended up at a Requiem Mass. "I worry on you, sometimes, you know?" Porthos whispered close to Aramis beside her at there pew near the back of the church.

"Trust me," she said.

Porthos paused. She was desperate. "Alright. Jus' this once." Aramis gave her a shoulder nudge. "So, 'o is the departed?"

"Head of the candle-makers guild, she died a year ago."

"A woman? We really are going up in the world." She muttered sarcastically.

Her eyes scanned the sparse crowd. "Forth pew, left side." She nodded towards a plump, woman in her forty's. " _Madame_ Laurent. Has a thing for Musketeers." Aramis continued. "Many have brave have gone there, but few have returned." Said woman looked back at them a flirtatious smile.

"Are you one of the few returned?"

"How poorly you must think of me." She intoned and Porthos fought back the snigger.

Porthos made a discontent noise in the back of her throat. "I think she's more you're type than mine."

"Fifth pew, right side." Porthos discovered a pretty young blond woman. " _Madame_ Marchand—in possession of one indifferent husband, three lovers and five small and irritating dogs." She sighed, smiling of a want already discovered and soon to be again.

Porthos rolled her lightly at her friend as the Priest continued to read a passage from the bible. Her eyes scoured the scattered crowd of mourners. And her searching eyes met that of a man's in a front pew. He was one of a few men present and he looked a handsome vessel. She gave the man an alluring if not sympathetic smile, before he faced front again.

"Easy does-it." Aramis muttered out the side of mouth, elbowing the tall woman.

"Hmm?"

"It a Requiem Mass, not a party at Madame Angel's."

They looked at each other and then crossed themselves respectfully.

* * *

d'Artagnan strode into Treville's office determined and without knocking. "I need your permission to compete." He told the older man, halting behind him where he leaned forwards on the front of his desk. "I'm ready."

Treville wasn't surprised by the Gascon's request, but what did was that it had taken him this long to come to him. "There's no guarantee you'll win." He turned to the young man. "You know that." He walked back around his desk.

d'Artagnan shook his head. "I'm not asking for a favour—only a chance to prove myself. I'm sick of people saying I'm a Musketeer in all but name. I ready to take that step forward."

Treville sighed and leaned forward against his desk. "You'll be up against the very best."

He nodded and smiled. "I know." But it faltered as Treville looked at him and seemed to hesitate. He furrowed his brows in question.

"d'Artagnan, there's no easy way to tell you this." Treville started slowly, and d'Artagnan's fingers twitched, wanting to clench into a fist. "I've just received a list of charges against Labarge from the Cardinal." He held up a piece of paper from his desk.

"I don't understand." He shook his head.

"Your farm was one of the properties destroyed by Labarge." Heart hammering in chest, he stepped forward and took the page, reading through the list of names. "Apparently, he did it as a warning to other local landowners—he knew your father was greatly respected amongst them." Treville watched him carefully.

He was still and silent, his left hand holding the paper didn't shake, even as the swell of emotion inside of his was great. His right hand clenched, slightly aside and from view. "That farm was my only source of income." It was the only unemotional thing he could think to say. And suddenly, the lack of money received these last two months, made sense. He'd just thought that the crop yielded and sold had not been as bountiful—never did he dream that his was one of the properties that Labarge had razed to the ground.

Treville nodded, unsure that this was entirely the response he had been expecting from the passionate Gascon. "I'll make sure justice is done—if that's any comfort."

He shook his head and handed the paper back. His voice briefly betrayed him as it wobbled. "Justice won't pay the rent." And he turned and left.

He went straight from Treville's office, down the stairs, passed practicing Musketeers in the yard, and made it into the garrison gate-tunnel before the emotion claimed him.

He planted both palms flat against the stone wall, and watched the Musketeers with their Fleur-de-lys, jealous. He shook his head, and back to wall, slid down to the ground, his knees drawn to his chest like that of a little boy. Unshed tears burned in his eyes.

Labarge had destroyed his father's legacy, burned it to the ground in flames. Turned something with so much history and perseverance into nothing more than rubble and scorched earth. It felt like he was losing his father all over again.

* * *

At the conclusion of Requiem Mass, Aramis had approached her _Madame_ Marchand, the pair leaving shortly after, arm-in-arm. And Porthos made her own _Monsieur_ Alic Clerbeaux who's wife it was that had died a year ago.

He was a handsome man, with dark hair and blue eyes that she felt could rival that of Athos'. He had what people called a beauty spot, and it really did as its name suggested.

"My condolences, _Monsieur."_ Porthos said respectfully, hesitantly. "Your wife, er... was a great woman. A great candle-maker. Well, that goes without saying..."

Alic looked at her lightly. "I don't believe we've been introduced—?"

"Ah." Heat flushed her cheeks. She didn't think anyone had ever called her _Madame_ before. "Jus' Porthos," she put a fist over her heart and bowed her head lightly, her wavy bangs falling into her eyes. "Of the King's Musketeers."

"Well, Porthos... of the Musketeers no less." Alic mused lightly and Porthos nodded. "How is it that you met her?"

"Ah, well, it's..." Porthos stammered for a moment, put on the spot. Of course he would be curious as to how she might know his late wife, even if it wasn't true. But Alic just watched her curiously and waited. "It was an event. You know, we both attended the, uh, same one, you know, obviously." She smiled. "It was ages ago now. So..."

Alic nodded. "If you don't mind me saying... you don't exactly look like the kind of woman who cares for making candles."

"Well," she shrugged helplessly. "Candles are a practical thing an' I'm a practical person."

"Yes," he hummed. "You seem a very practical woman."

"Well," she chuckled.

He returned the inflection. "Would you like to walk with me, Porthos?" he asked her boldly. "It's just that—I would enjoy the company, that is, if you don't mind the walking...?"

"Oh, no, I—It would be a pleasure." Porthos nodded.

* * *

d'Artagnan didn't know how he did it—perhaps it was rebellion—but he had pulled himself together, and left the garrison before he made an even bigger fool of himself.

He hadn't actively been looking for her, but he found her anyways, carrying an armful of flat material spools. He took them in-hand without permission and she smiled at him. He told her of what happened after going to the garrison as they slowly walked back towards the Bonacieux house. Of the competition and of his father's farm, at least.

"Oh, d'Artagnan." She murmured softly.

He just shook his head. "This contest—It's my only chance, Constance. I _have_ to win that prize." He sighed. "I just need to raise the entrance fee."

"30 _livres_ is a lot of money." She pointed out gently.

"You don't have to remind me." That was something he was extremely aware of.

She put her hand on his arm and drew him to a stop. "d'Artagnan..." he faced her.

His hold tightened on the materials. "First, I loose my father, and then I loose his farm. No money. No prospects. I honestly can't think what you see in me." He tried to make a joke out of it, taking a page from her own book, but it didn't go over well. She could hear the break in his heart as he spoke, and she could feel it in her own at what he said next. "It's a good thing he's dead, otherwise he'd be disappointed in me. Nothing had gone right since I came to Paris."

"That's not true!" she denied him. "You have Athos, Aramis, and Porthos... and me." She reached up and cupped his cheek briefly. He leaned into the touch for as long as he could before she reclaimed her hand. "Now, d'Artagnan, you listen to me." She told him firmly and he nodded. "Everything will be fine. You'll raise the money and... You'll win the contest. I _know_ you will. Trust me."

"That's what _I'm_ supposed to say to you." He told her.

She chuckled lightly. "Well, it's my turn now. So believe me, like I believe in you."

He looked at her with such deep affection. He slowly smiled. Her confidence in the matter was infectious, but there was still the small but large matter of the entry fee. "Where am I going to find 30 livres?" Treville never specifically said no. If he managed to acquire it, surely Treville could not deny him then.

"You'll think of something."

"You're the best, Constance." He handed her back the material with a small grin and when he left, there was more life in his step than when he had arrived. She smiled gently after him, clutching the material to chest.

* * *

Their simple walk had turned into the act of an invitation to lunch, and Porthos found herself waiting in the sitting room. Alic returned.

"Apologies for the delay," he told her sincerely. "I haven't had much occasion for guests."

"No, no. I understand."

"I, um, hope you're hungry." He said. "I've planned a rather full menu."

"I'm always 'ungry." She confessed and they laughed. It was the way she held herself, her gruff manner, that she knew turned men off. But it was who she was, it was set into her bones. If they couldn't accept that, then they weren't worth it. But, from what little time she had spent with Alic, he didn't seemed to mind the way she talked, or acted. That she wasn't a proper lady.

"This way." He gestured and she stepped towards him. With the hand at the small of her back, Alic lead her to the dinning room.

Porthos needn't have been trepid as they sat, he at the head of the table, and her on his right, when the first course was brought. When Alic said a full menu, he meant it. The conversation between them flowed easily and they had more laughs than not. Afterward, Porthos had never felt fuller.

She lingered and they took wine after. A better port than she'd had in a long time. In honesty, she'd forgotten why she first approached the man. She was just enjoying her time with the man.

"It was a hard time." Alic confessed quietly. "Watching the sickness take Charlene..."

But Porthos nodded. "I can understand."

"You've lost someone?" he enquired softly.

She was quiet for a moment as even now the loss hit her. It would hit her forever. "My..." her voice cracked and she cleared her throat. "My Ma. She, um... she died of fever when I was a child."

"Porthos," he gasped. "And you saw this? Just a child."

She nodded. "But I got to say goodbye, tell 'er that I loved 'er."

"I'm so sorry." His fingertips briefly brushed across her clenched fist at the corner of the table in comfort. "Who raised you?"

She was a little sensitive on the matter, and didn't share it easily. Especially things far into her past. Her childhood. Porthos found herself unable to let go so easily, not when, in her life growing up, that could mean her death. To lay trust in someone was no simple thing. But as she looked into Alic's soft blue gaze, which had thus far not looked at her in any such judgement, she felt that she did.

"Myself." She said and his eyes widened. "In... The Court of Miracles."

"You had no family?" he whispered, when she had expected nothing else but judgement.

She shook her head mutely. "Jus' me, and Flea and Charon. They became my family. We looked after each other. Now, I 'ave the Musketeers. And you—you 'ave all this."

"Yes," he looked around the room sadly. "What you must think I me."

She shook her head. "I'm not one to judge, trust me." He smiled at her. Porthos cleared her throat and gave her a gentle smile. "But, at least you're surrounded by 'er things." She gestured. "Keeps 'er memory alive, I imagine."

"Yes, I supposed so." He allowed.

"'Aving something to remember 'er by, it must be a great confront."

"You have nothing of your Mother?"

"Just a few simple memories, ones that shall never fade."

"You knew Charlene," he said suddenly. "You should have a token for yourself."

"Oh, no." She immediately shook her head.

He ignored her refusal. "How selfish of me not to think of it. Here I am in this house, surrounded by her things... you should have something. Perhaps, a comb. Or, no... the candle snuffer." He stood. "An entrepreneur of candles, yourself."

"No. No no no." Porthos continued to stammer out her refusal, but Alic had already gone to the table at the side lined with candelabrum and retrieved the snuffer.

"Er... I couldn't, er..." she paused as she looked at it in the man's hand. "That must be worth 30 _livres_ at least." She realized.

He scoffed as he turned it in his hands. "I should say so. It's solid gold."

"Oh."

Alic held it out to her. "I insists you have it." He said knowingly. "Charlene used it every day of her life. I want you to have it."

Porthos hesitated for a long moment as she looked at the man. "I'd be honoured." She said finally and took it. Alic sat, pleased. They held up their wine glasses and toasted to the woman one-year gone and her Ma, not forgotten.

* * *

d'Artagnan had returned to the garrison after his talk with Constance, but any ideas on how exactly to gain to 30 _livres_ that he needed to enter the competition that would determine his future, bore no fruit. And he was left wondering if he was going to have to find a patron/ess like Aramis and Porthos had set out to do. But who would do him such a favour? He was with Constance now, and he refused to cross a line like that might force him to do.

"Treville told me what happened to your farm," Athos said in a sleeveless tunic, watching the young man carefully. "I'm sorry, d'Artagnan."

His back was to her as he stripped off his doublet and tossed it onto the table, his shoulders tense as he pulled his gloves up. "It's just a farm, Athos. Wood nailed together."

Athos wasn't convinced. That farm was more than wood nailed together, it had been d'Artagnan home, all his first memories and experiences were made there—his family. Just as the chateau in Pinon had been her home, her family, her memories—all of it. The good ones and the black ones. And though there was nothing left for her there, hadn't been for almost six-years now—she was glad it was burned. But she knew the same could not be said for the d'Artagnan farm.

She only said one thing further on the matter, because she knew he wanted to speak on it no longer. "Leave justice to the courts. Labarge will get him. You fought for this chance. Now fight to prove you're ready."

d'Artagnan faced her. "I _am_ ready." Athos smiled at him. "What?" he asked slowly.

"You have natural talent—but you too often let your emotions run away with you." She said. "Talent won't keep you alive if your heart rules your head."

Eye narrowed, he threw the unhooked sheath from his belt, off his rapier. "Can we just get on with it?" he flicked his sword through the air skilfully, going to face against the woman.

"My point in a nutshell." Her own sword was drawn.

d'Artagnan's only response was a first attack. Athos allowed him at her, parrying his strikes. And then it whipped into fast, sparks flying briefly as their swords met. d'Artagnan spun round on-heel, his slash aimed center and Athos arched out of reach. They circled, tips touching.

"I hear an ordinary prison isn't good enough for Labarge." Athos intoned across the blades. "He in the Bastille, living in comfort." Treville coming into the yard to watch his men's practice was an afterthought. They exchanged a few quick strikes. Athos pointed her sword at d'Artagnan's chest, and he swat it away, irritated. "His every whim attended to." d'Artagnan came at her, and Athos quickly grabbed his sword wrist as he came in close and jerked it down. She got in close and could see the tightness around his passionate brown as eyes as she continued to taunt him. "Imagine him there, living the life of a King. While you are left penniless, unable to pay your rent."

d'Artangna shoved the woman away angrily, and swung at her head. It was a sloppy execution and Athos grabbed his wrist again, twisting it towards the young man's own stomach. He whipped out his main _gauche,_ slashing at the woman, but he over-reached and Athos put him on the ground, still holding his wrist.

d'Artagnan glared up at the woman. Athos stared coolly down. "Every soldier has an Achilles heel." After a moment more, she finally released his wrist and he rose to his knees. "Control that, and you control the fight."

But d'Artagnan was alit. He bypassed Athos and Treville. "So, Labarge is in the Bastille, is he?" he spat, grabbing his doublet and storming form the garrison.

That man ruined countless lives, and they left him to the Bastille? More a inn than a prison. He'd had a short stay at the Chatelet and it was not a pretty place to be. And he had just participated in an illegal duel. What Labarge had done—Justice? Where was this justice that Treville and Athos kept speaking to him of?

Treville approached Athos with a raised brow.

"I was trying to provoke him." Athos explained.

"You succeeded." Treville agreed. "Probably more-so than you intended." He sighed. "Keep an eye on him."

She nodded. "He's bound to do something stupid in this state."

* * *

d'Artagnan's outrage and anger didn't relent an inch in the journey from the garrison, straight to Louvre and the Cardinal's office. It was this man's doing, he knew. Labarge was his Intendant. The whole start of this mess was because he sent the Red Guards to collect the man who was already arrested by Musketeer hands.

"Cardinal!" he screamed, fighting loose of the Red Guards' hands that try to restrain him as he burst unwanted and unannounced into Richelieu's office. "I wish to talk to you about Labarge. He destroyed my property and sold everything I owned."

The Cardinal waved his Guards back and allowed the Gascon's heated approached. "There are many claims against him. No doubt his trial will establish the truth of them." He knew this young man, he'd seen them with Treville's irritating Inseparables—God forbid there was another one.

He seethed. "What am I to live on until then?"

He didn't have a pauldron, so Richelieu knew d'Artagnan wasn't yet commissioned into the Musketeers by the King. "What?" the Cardinal said insolently, "Still no commission from the Musketeers?" He didn't move as he watched d'Artagnan's eyes brighten with even hotter anger, his jaw clench, and his fists, too. Richelieu could see how he wanted to strike him, but knew he wouldn't, not if he wanted to live. "How disappointing."

If his best fighting man amongst the Red Guards had been Captain Trudeau, who'd died at his own man's hand, then he was positive that he was going to loose this competition—and that was something that could not happen. The Musketeers and Treville had humiliated him enough. It was his turn.

This young man was obviously discontent. This could provided him with opportunity. Perhaps, though the boy was foolish to join with the Musketeers, he might see opportunity given and ripe fruits bloom. The Gascon's answer would either further assuage or urge his plans for Labarge.

"But there _are_ other regiments." Richelieu suggest.

"Other regiments like the Red Guards?" The suggestion had surprised him, but his response was immediate and sarcastic. "The very same fools who killed their own Captain?" he turned and bowed sarcastically to the Guards at the door.

Richelieu's jaw tightened briefly before he ploughed ahead. This business with Trudeau was an embarrassment he didn't need, one witnessed by the Musketeers no less. He could see an opportunity with d'Artagnan, and he was never one to let such a thing slip through his fingers if he had a say in it. "Why not?" he enticed. "A young man of such talent and ambition as yourself could flourish to great levels in the Red Guards under my patronage. You could _rise_ through the ranks."

d'Artagnan's lips twisted in distaste. The Cardinal was trying to bribe him onto the Red Guards with a commission and position—something for which he dreamed, only in a different regiment. He felt shame for the brief instant that he entertained the idea and by way the Cardinal's gaze brightened, he knew the man saw.

"I'll take me chances, thank you."

He knew the man was slime already, but to see it up close...

The Cardinal narrowed his eyes. "As you wish." It was a disappointment, truly, but Richelieu was not a man to just have one card up his sleeve.

"What about Labarge?" d'Artagnan insisted a moment later.

The Cardinal turned back to him and replied flippantly. "If he confesses, you may well receive some form of recompense. If not..." he shrugged simply.

"As a citizen of France, I demand my rights!" he screamed angrily at the man.

Richelieu spun. "You demand nothing of me!" he snapped his fingers and his lingering Red Guards approached.

d'Artagnan glared harshly at the man, his fists clenched at his sides. Richelieu could see the Gascon wanted to strike him, but despite his anger, the young man knew the Cardinal would have his head if he did so. He would rot in jail at the least.

A Guard grabbed his shoulder, and d'Artagnan grabbed his wrist harshly, throwing it away. He spat, his features twisted with a deep anger and grip that could make him unpredictable. He backed away through the doors he had barged through earlier, his glare harsh as the Red Guards followed him out.

A pity, had d'Artagnan said yes, Richelieu would have given him all he dreamt of and even more so.

Milady slithered from the single door near the Cardinal's desk that lead to his chambers. "I almost feel sorry for him, lodging with that misery cloth merchant Bonacieux."

Richelieu turned to his Secret Weapon. "First Athos and now d'Artagnan? Your fascination with these Musketeers seems exhaustible."

"What can I say, my enthusiasm proceeds me. But there's no need to be jealous, Cardinal." She smiled. "I do everything for you."

He didn't seem impressed. "Permit me to doubt that."

"I would never lie to you, Richelieu."

He scoffed. "I take everything you say with a grain of salt."

"If you so wish." She shrugged, uncaring. "So, what are you going to do now?"

"Oh, I have a few ideas."

* * *

"I understand you're a cloth merchant?" the Cardinal inquired from where he sat in behind his desk. Looking across at the rather unimpressive man in front of him. Milady hadn't been kidding when she said the man was a misery.

"The house of Bonacieux has been in business for three generations." Jacques Bonacieux rambled nervously, all but wringing his hat in his hands as he stood before His Eminence. His snatching from the street had been quite sudden and he didn't think he had been so fearful in his life. The same Red Guards that had taken him, had shoved him in front of the Cardinal—the last place he expected to be.

"I'm sure you're a visionary amongst drapers." Richelieu commented dryly and stood, slowly walking over to the man. "Now, I may be in need of a new supplier to my Red Guards. The contract is a lucrative one. But the merchant must be someone I trust."

Bonacieux's eyes widened in understanding. "Then, how might I prove it?" A chance like this, to supply for the Cardinal, he wouldn't have money fears any longer, he could give to Constance the beautiful things that she deserved as to be his wife.

Richelieu briefly took a few steps back towards him desk. "I am interested... in your lodger—d'Artagnan." He turned back. "I want you to find out who he sees, where he goes, and in particular if he had any clandestine female companions."

"You want me to spy on him?" he was surprised.

"I can see you are a man of quick intelligence." Richelieu sat back at his desk.

Bonacieux never much liked the Gascon. Ever since Constance had given him kindness upon his collapse in the Market, and he himself had allowed the young man to lodge in his home—trouble had knocked on his door more than once. Those Musketeers were just trouble, and it wouldn't do to have such an ingrate in his house, to soil the good of his name. Constance had changed as well, and it wasn't a change that he appreciated. The Red Guards were the authority of Paris, and the Cardinal was a great man. Obviously, he could see that d'Artagnan was a scoundrel and a villain as well.

"It will be my honour to serve you." Bonacieux bowed. This was his chance to finally get rid of the man, and make a move up in societies ranks. To be associated with the Cardinal, was like that of the King.

* * *

d'Artagnan's approach of the Cardinal had bore him nothing but a spreading and deepened anger, that made him act more reckless than not. Justice? The Cardinal didn't care about Labarge's victims getting recompense any more than he cared of the people left the starve in the Court of Miracles. The only intersects Richelieu held were his own, whether to further his reputation or reach. If anything was to be done about the monster, he was going to have to do it himself.

It didn't matter that reason would dictate that if he went through with this half-charged idea, _he_ would be the one to come out the end of it gravely injured or dead. That it had taken the four of them, working in tandem to bring down the man—on both accounts. That Labarge already had experienced Musketeer scalps on his belt, and one half-made trainee didn't stand a chance. But he didn't care. Labarge needed to pay. For what he had done to all those families just trying to survive, for what he had done to d'Artagnan. And the Gascon seemed the only one willing to do it himself.

Sneaking into and through the Bastille out of the night and rain was child's play. It was a wonder all its residents just didn't walk straight out as he had walked in. He ducked into the shadows of the flickering torches and waited for a Red Guard to pass, oblivious, before he grabbed the man from behind and put him in a chokehold. He snuffed out his breath, rendering him unconscious before he stripped the man of his uniform and donned the red designed doublet of the only regiment uniform he seemed to be afforded to. He refused to see this as some sign for him taking with the Cardinal's Red Guards. He was born for the Musketeer blue. He would have that pauldron and he would show them all just how great he could be.

"You're early." The Guard standing outside Labarge's cell commented.

"Are you complaining?" he raised a brow.

"No. But watch out." He handed over the key ring. "He mangled Gershaw's hand earlier. Don't know what the Cardinal sees in him. He's a monster."

"So I hear." d'Artagnan muttered as the man left. He waited until the Guard rounded the corner, and forced himself to wait several heartbeats before he turned and unlocked the door.

The cell was large and better furnished than the room he had rented at the inn his first night in Paris. Thunder crashed outside as the rain flooded the ground, turning packed dirt into wet mud. A candle flickering on the desk at the side of the room, as well as a torch near the head of the bed which Labarge was currently slumbering on lit the cell.

"Wake up, Labarge." But the man didn't move. He turned from the large man, inhaling deeply as he fought the simple and cruel urge to run Labarge through whilst he slept. But he had honour, and he would fight on a playing field that the scum didn't deserved. He wanted Labarge to know it was him who ended his sorry life.

But Labarge was awake. And he slowly turned and sat up, silent. He grabbed the plate from the stool which was still smeared with Gershaw's blood and aimed for the young man's head.

d'Artangna had sensed the movement behind him, on the raising of the hair on the back of his neck, and turned just in time to avoid behind clipped in the ear.

"I know you!" Labarge stood and d'Artagnan pulled his rapier from sheath. "Such a fickle bitch. What are you? A Red Guard now?" he spat. "What do you want?"

"My name is d'Artagnan of Lupiac in Gascony." He announced, very similar to what he said upon his first entry of the Musketeer garrison in looking for his father's murderer. "You burned down my farm."

Labarge laughed. "I've burned down a lot of farms. What makes you think I can remember yours?"

"I want your full confession. Without it, I will not get justice. And then I will take your head!"

Labarge grabbed the towel from the back of the chair next to him and wrapped the end around his hand. He had been sitting idle for too long. His blood pumped with the prospect of this whelp's on his hands. "I don't see what good a confession is to you—with a broken neck." He lit the end of it on fire by the torch and walked towards d'Artagnan, swinging.

d'Artagnan ducked, backing up as embers of burning material floated in front of his face. He lunged suddenly with his sword. Labarge swung the flaming towel at him, and was struck in the face, falling back to the ground. He slashed at it with his sword, and his vision cleared to find Labarge on top of him and a large fist coming his way. Knee planted on his narrow chest, Labarge's hands wrapped around his throat and tightened.

His oxygen instantly cut off, d'Artagnan had a brief moment of panic as he released his sword tangled in the flaming towel and scrambled uselessly at the man's hands. This was not supposed to be how it went. Their roles were supposed to be reversed.

"Ever kill someone with your bare hands?" Labarge grinned as d'Artagnan's olive skinned started to blotch red. "Watch as the life slowly drained from their eyes? There's nothing like it."

Black spots entered his vision and he knew it would only be a minute before he met his true end. And for what? A brief calm clung to him. His right hand scrambled along the floor beside him. He found the hilt of his rapier and flung the flaming weapon as his killer. Labarge yelped as flaming material engulfed his head and he jumped back away from d'Artagnan.

That first gasp of oxygen crackled through his throat painfully. His head was lightened and his throat abused as he took gulping breaths. He attempted to scramble away, but Labarge was on him again almost immediately. On his stomach, Labarge grabbed his _main gauche_ from the small of his back. d'Artagnan leapt like a frog and grabbed his sword. He faced off against the giant.

Labarge grinned. "I like when they fight." He tossed the knife from hand to hand.

"You will give me that confession." d'Artagnan growled, a harsh roughness to his voice that was partly anger and partly damage onto his throat.

"You know what I like about cutting people's throats?" he asked. "It's stops them talking!"

d'Artagnan slashed at the man, and then jabbed, getting close. Labarge blocked it with the knife, locking the blades as he forced d'Artagnan's arm behind his back and punched the smaller man in the kidney before shoving him into the desk on the side wall. d'Artangna grunted at the edge of the desk in his ribs, but quickly spun with a slash, forcing Labarge to jump back.

Labarge tossed the dagger away carelessly with a smile. And thinking it a opening of stupidity, d'Artagnan lunged. Labarge let the blade pass recklessly close to his ribs before he grabbed d'Artagnan's sword wrist, forcing him to drop the weapon as he forced the Gascon face first to the ground.

d'Artagnan writhed under him, but the man's knee to the small of his back pinned him firmly. Labarge was crushing his right hand in an iron grip. His heart was pounding in his bruised throat, fear making his pupils pinpricks. He cried out as the man grabbed a harsh fistful of his dark mane and wrenched his head back.

"Didn't I say something about a broken neck before?" and though Labarge released his hand, it allowed him no leverage as the bald man grabbed his around the chin and started to slowly pull his head back.

d'Artagnan screamed as he felt the popping in his neck, the harsh pull. Labarge wasn't going break his neck, he was going to pull his head off! Since coming to Paris and joining up with the Musketeers, d'Artagnan had found himself in several life-threatening situations, but none were ever as this was. He was going to die, and no one was even going to know it.

"Let him go." Athos ordered, her tone deathly as she ran into the cell, her pistol aimed squarely at Labarge's head.

Labarge's face twists angrily at the woman and her weapon, and released d'Artagnan, standing back. Athos stepped forward, forcing the man back so she could get to d'Artagnan. She silently grasped his arm, pulling him to his feet as he grabbed his sword. He rubbed at the abuse onto his neck.

"Get out." Labarge growled. He would get them, in his own time.

A sneer on his own face, d'Artagnan pulled from Athos' grip and brushed passed her and out the cell. A second later, Athos backed out, locking the cell door again with the key ring d'Artagnan had left in the lock.

d'Artagnan stripped the wretched red doublet from his back, back at the spot where he'd grabbed the Guard. The man was starting to come around as he put back on his own doublet and he put heel to the man's temple before moving on. He thrusted out of the Bastille and into the rain, and would have kept on regardless of the passing Guard, had Athos not grabbed him.

"What do you think you are doing?" she hissed.

He couldn't meet her eyes. It was over, he hadn't been able to complete his task. He was a failure.

She sighed. He looked just a kid, hair plastered wetly to skull, standing there in abject misery. "What did I tell you about thinking before you act?"

"I couldn't help it." his voiced was hardly more than a croak and she winced internally in sympathy. "I'm not like you."

Her voice was soft, despite her frustration and fear towards the man. "You are." If she had been a minute later... she planted her palm firmly against his chest, as much to allow herself the reassurance of his beating heart beneath her palm, as to keep his attention. "More so than you know. Come on." The coast clear, she dragged him along away from the Bastille and his would-have death. "Get some rest. Honey and tea to ease your throat—we will train tomorrow."

He said nothing as he left her, and she sighed, turning her own way. It was late, but she didn't head straight back to her apartment. The walking helped her process, especially in the quite of the streets at night with the route she took herself. The rain halted.

"You are growing careless, Athos." The voice was sweat and smooth, and Athos stopped her stride, a chill stabbing her. "I could have killed you just now." Athos turned towards Milady, who stepped from the shadows—her Anne. Her expression steel, she walked towards the venomous woman. "Shall we call this... mutual ground?"

"If you wish." She replied. And said with irony, "I won't attack a defenceless woman."

She chuckled. "Your beautiful face is full of questions. Ask me anything you wish." She went and leaned sensually back against the wall.

She wasn't one to waste an opportunity presented to her. Athos turned and stopped in front of her. "What is your connection with the Cardinal?"

"I have to make a living somehow, after all you have taken from me. What better patron could I have?" she whispered.

Athos stepped closer. "What exactly do you do for him?"

"I'm a solider, just like you." She murmured. "Well, perhaps we're not quite the same." She exhaled. "But we all have to exploit out natural... talents." And she stepped towards her, leaving them breast-to-breast. She hummed softly. Her fingertips brushed gentle against the exposed flesh of Athos' chest at her open collar, in such similar manner to what Ninon had done, that Athos fought the shiver. Milady's fingers picked up the locket from between her breasts. "You still wear my locket?" their noses brushed. "Why?"

Athos cocked her head lightly, gazing into the eyes of the woman who had stolen her heart—and broken it. "Sometimes... Sometimes I ask myself the same question." It did nothing to remedy her of the past, but remind her, burden her every day with the truth. Her brother dead, her betrayed, lied to, used.

"Shall I show you why?" Milady breathed and put a finger under Athos' chin, pulling up so that their lips met.

Anne always made something else rule her instead of her head, and for the briefest of milliseconds, Athos threw away the past. Milady's tongue flickered against her own, and Athos was herself again. She parted from the kiss, and nudged the other woman back against the wall. Her blue eyes were cold.

"Did you really think I could forget... _who_ you are and _what_ you did?"

Milady's own expression hardened and she narrowed her eyes. "It seems neither of us can forget the past."

"Why are you here?" Athos hissed. "What is it that you want from me that you already haven't taken?"

"Hah. I want your life, Olivia! I want to destroy you, like you destroyed me!" she pushed back against the woman, but there was no real power behind it.

"You have already done so!" She shouted. "You murdered my brother because he found out the truth of what you really are. A criminal, a liar! You used me to get my name. You're nothing but a whore!"

Milady slapped her. "I loved you! You threw that away, the minute you ordered me to hang!"

Athos hardly even flinched at the contact. "Love? You don't even know the meaning."

Milady seethed and shoved Athos back, with force this time. "I give you fair warning, Athos." She brushed passed her. "Come at me—and you'll regret it." And she picked up her skirts and disappeared down the dark and empty street.

Athos breathed heavily as she stared after the green-eyed woman. Her fist clenched, she gave a wordless cry, spinning around, her fist striking out. At the last moment, she opened her hand, and her palm stung against the stone wall. She looked at the locket and ached, the forget-me-not she had painstakingly painted in herself, hardly faded over the abuse it had suffered of the years around her neck.

* * *

d'Artagnan did head back for the Bonacieux house, though the late hour, but he took the long route that left him no more less angry and all the more wet and chilled. By the time he arrived, he discovered the door locked. And rightly so, he thought. His thumbed his forehead irresolutely against the wood. Constance would be in bed with her husband, instead of the likes of him who could get nothing right. Who did nothing, it seemed, but fail. But for whatever reason, she still loved him.

His feelings were just too mixed and heated. Of course, he thought of banging down the door until it was opened before him, Bonacieux and everyone else be-damned. But then Athos' tone from earlier came back and halted him.

He rubbed his abused neck, as he hunkered down for the night in the shelter of the hitching host. There was no tea and honey—but at least it had stopped raining.

* * *

He was haggard. His sleep had been restless and interrupted by the damp chill of the night. But he'd arrived at the garrison bright and early, his throat feeling swollen. Athos gave him a silent nod that was accompanied with an outstanding question upon his state.

Even against the olive-tone of his skin, Athos could see the dark marks of Labarge's fingers clamped around his throat and she was struck again by how close she had been to loosing the Gascon. Any later, and she would have lost a second brother.

"'M f'ne." He answered and the rasp in his voice stated otherwise. He cleared his throat and grimaced. The water he took was cold and hard.

She could clearly see that he did not do as she had instructed him upon their parting last night. It was a wonder that she herself was not passed-out from drink in some dark corner of a tavern after her encounter with Anne the other night. Instead, she had forced herself to drink in her apartment, and only then a single bottle of wine.

"Aramis." Athos called, her eyes not leaving the young man. His eyes instantly narrowed on her for her cheap trick in calling on the medic. Athos didn't blink an eye.

Aramis looked over from where she and Porthos had been preparing for their own practise duel. Later in the day was the deadline for the entry fee, then the competition for Treville to choose the Musketeers' champion. The next morning was to be the contest against the Cardinal's Red Guards at Louvre.

At the silent jerk of the woman's chin, the pair approached.

"What's up?" Aramis looked from Athos' stern expression directed at d'Artagnan. She looked at the Gascon, who resolutely turned his head from her, staring at the clutter on the table next to him. Her eyes narrowed, for she knew the look upon Athos' face and though he looked rumpled, it wasn't until his bobbing Adam's apple and grimace caught her attention. "Charlie!" she gasped. The marks were a dark purple, appearing nearly black on his toned skin. "What happened?"

She approached him, fast and furious, already reaching for him before he could blink. Before he could think of pushing her hands away, her glare stilled him. He didn't want attention, he wanted to fight. But the woman pushed him back and forced him to sit on the bench at the table.

"Labarge." Athos said simply, her tone hard.

"Labarge?" Porthos repeated in confusion and then her eyes widened. "You went after 'im? Why?"

"d'Artagnan's was one of the properties Labarge destroyed." She explained, and his jaw gritted harshly in response, his eyes aflame. "So he took it upon himself to make the man confess."

She sat beside him. "That was foolish." Aramis chided. "He could have killed you." She whispered, and he winced at her feather-light touches brushed against the abused flesh. "By appearances sake, it looks like he nearly did." When it appeared no answer was forthcoming, she laid instruction on Athos and Porthos to fetch some things for her. They went immediately to the task. "I'm sorry for your farm." She murmured her sympathies.

He turned his face away before she could see the hot tears that clouded fresh in his eyes. It took his a hard moment of pure will to force them away. "What's a farm is just a farm." He repeated in a lacking tone of something similar he had said to Athos just yesterday.

She sighed. "And your hand?" she reached across his lap and took his right hand without permission. He allowed her to inspect it. The only other thing that might owe to a brief allowance of attentions would to be to push her off the bench and make a run for—though that would only work until she caught up with him. When one of them was injured, even with a minor cause, she was like a demon after their well-being. It could be as frightening at times as it was annoying and comforting.

Athos and Porthos finally returned. Porthos with a basin of water and Aramis' kit; and Athos with a small dish filled with honey, a kettle of boiled water, and a cup tucked under her arm. They cleared the present clutter from the table, and replaced it with their own.

Aramis bid him to turn round and immediately put his bruised hand in the cold water in the basin. Before she poured the steaming water into a cup, dumped a packet of herbs into it from a folded packet of paper out of her kit, stirred the mixture and then spooned honey into the mixture before pushing it in front of the silent Gascon.

"You know you want it," she said. "Don't make me feed you like a child."

Porthos chuckled. "You know she will."

d'Artagnan took up with cup with his left hand and took a tentative sip. He knew it tasted bitter, and would have more-so if not for the honey that seemed to coat his throat with silk. They watched him like a hawk as he drank, the mixture too hot for him to chug. The heat went down. And though he could still feel the strain and the pain, it didn't cause him much when he cleared his throat this time around.

Aramis could tell that it was working without him even having to say a word. "No need to thank me, I live to serve." She patted him on the back.

d'Artagnan looked at Athos. "I'm ready to duel."

Athos glanced at Aramis, who gave a subtle nod of allowance. "Fine."

Aramis and Porthos went back to their interrupted practice as well, as Athos and d'Artagnan squared off once more.

"Every taunt is an attempt to distract you, to discover your vulnerabilities and exploit the weakness." Athos spoke as they circled. "Last night, you let your hatred of Labarge overcome your judgement." She slashed head-level and he ducked, sending a jab her way. "You're trip to the Bastille was a childish mistake." She could see his expression harden further and further as she continued, bringing up the still fresh and sore subject. "I thought you had brains, but clearly not."

Their blades twirled together and he spun, slashing. She parried the blow easily, forcing him back a step. He growled in frustration.

"I know what you're doing."

"Even so..." she replied. She rested her sword flat on her shoulder. "That kind of stupidity is _exactly_ why you're not ready to be a Musketeer."

d'Artagnan faltered and pointed his sword at her, "You don't mean that?" His eyes were wide open and vulnerable. Her words had shaken him. To hear everyone else say them... but not Athos. His mentor, friend, and sister. The woman whom he respected on such a high level. Surely she didn't...

"Of course not." She murmured firmly. He attempted to level himself. His next attack was severely lacking and Athos shoved his trusting arm away easily, twisting it around his front and over his shoulder, forcing him to his knees before putting her own blade hovering over the abused flesh at the side of his exposed neck. "But unfortunately... you're now dead."

d'Artagnan shoved her blade away in frustration. He clambered to his feet, and without word, stalked angrily from her, passed Aramis and Porthos and out the garrison.

Athos sighed heavily as she watched him go. She sheathed her sword as the two women approached.

"What's wrong with 'im?" Porthos questioned.

"Reality," she answered in a harsh truth. "Now, he just has to find out how to deal with it."

* * *

Constance knew d'Artagnan didn't come home the previous night, and he hadn't been there when she awoke. She was concerned. Their last conversation had been on the 30 _livres_ that he would need to entry the competition.

She loved d'Artagnan, and she wanted him to be able to live his dreams. She knew how important being a Musketeer was. She wanted to help him see it to reality. She knew he would probably refuse her, but she could be persistent and convincing and she would turn him her way in no time. It wasn't charity, it was support.

So she'd spent the first few hours of her morning in the Market haggling for a good price on a few things that she knew wouldn't be missed around the house, as well as a basket of bakedgoods. The man she was locked in negotiations with was offering 20 _livre_ _s_ , but she managed to get him to part with the 30 _livres_ that she needed. And so she headed back with coin in-hand and a smile on her face.

* * *

d'Artagnan had returned from the garrison to find the Bonacieux house absent Constance but her husband present. d'Artagnan avoided the man and he took the opportunity to wash himself and change. And it helped to lighten his mood, if only marginally. He knew that Athos didn't mean what she said, she had just been teaching him a lesson in control, but it had hurt nonetheless.

His approach on the Cardinal had bore no fruit but anger, which had driven him to go after Labarge, which had nearly been his head. He was embarrassed and humiliated and angry. He had yet to acquire the 30 _livres_ that he needed to even make the entry, and after all that had happened, he was once more lacking the confidence of a winning head.

He was surprised when he left the house, and encountered none other than the dark-haired, green-eyed woman who seemed to be both savoir and threat.

Milady smiled at him. "I believe this is something you need." She held out a coin purse and then tossed it the short distance between them. He caught the unexpected gift on reflex. "It's 30 _livres_ , right?"

He narrowed his eyes but nodded. "How did you know that?"

She shrugged. "I've taken an interest in you, d'Artagnan." A sensual smile curved her red lips. "And it's not as though we are strangers, is it?"

d'Artagnan wasn't much in the mood for her flirting. No matter how many times they met, or that they had slept together, he would always be suspicious of her. "What's the catch?"

She seemed slightly disappointed at his reaction, but rallied immediately. "My, how suspicious you've grown since coming to Paris!"

"Can you blame me?" he replied drily.

She stepped closer to him. "There is no catch." She told him. "I simply want you to compete. You're very talented, I would see you go far."

"Funny, seeing as you seem to know all this about me when I don't even know your name." He commented. It was odd, because it was true. They had slept together. She'd blamed him for murder. She had killed two men in front of him. And he never quite got the chance to catch her name.

"Mmm." Her gaze was intense as she stared back at him, but didn't seem forthcoming with that piece of information either.

He was silent for a long moment as he looked at her and felt the real weight of the coin in his palm. It was here, what he needed to entered the competition that could lead to his commission into the Musketeers. He had it in his fingers tips. There was no possibility that he could deny it. Even as suspicious it was that she happened to appear with what he needed at the moment when he needed it most. He didn't delve to deeply into it at the moment. "I'll accept it," he said finally. "As a loan. I'll pay you back when I win."

"That's all I wish." She murmured. She smiled and turned, making her leave. Unnoticed, Bonacieux watched them from the kitchen window.

d'Artagnan cleared his throat to regain her attention, the sound crackling lightly. She paused, and glanced at him over his shoulder. He held a small chain between his fingers and hanging from it was a small medallion with a forget-me-not impressed in it. "What's this?" he had pulled it from the coin purse.

"A little good-luck charm." She answered sweetly. "And a token of my friendship."

Constance returned just as the Milady left. She scowled after the woman. "What did _she_ want?" her last encounter with the woman hadn't been pleasant.

"She just gave me the money so I can compete." He told her, putting the necklace back into the purse.

"What?" Constance looked at his hands, her only clenching around the loose coin in hers. "You shouldn't have taken that."

"Don't worry. I didn't do anything untoward to get it, if that's what you're worried about." He said. "It's a loan. One that was in much need." She still didn't look convinced. "I can handle her."

"Are you sure about that?" she knew the woman was not what she outwardly appeared to be.

His mood overly brighter now that he had the fee. It was just a matter of time before he showed them what he could be. "There's no need to be jealous." He mused. "I would not cheat on you." He reached up to brush his knuckles at her pale cheek but she knocked the gesture away with a glare.

"I'm not jealous," she scoffed. "Don't be an idiot."

"Than what?" he asked, somewhat hurt at her refusal of his touch. "Who else is just going to walk up and hand me 30 _livres_? This was my only chance. I had to take it."

"You're right." She agreed. And he left. She turned and watched him leave. "No one." She whispered and looked at the coins in her palm. What did that woman want with him? Whatever it was, Constance knew it was bad news.

* * *

Porthos found herself returned to the Clerbeaux mansion later that day when she was freed from the garrison. Yes, the food was good, the wine too. But she felt herself wanting to be in Alic's company more.

Porthos didn't have luck with finding men like Aramis had in her consumption of both the sexes. As was made evidence time and again. Porthos just wasn't a popular commodity. Because of her manner, her looks, the colour of her skin. She just didn't have that romantic, flamboyant charm that Aramis exuded. Or that noble and aloof air that Athos did. Or even that young, heated passion that d'Artagnan carried.

But for whatever reason, Alic liked her anyways.

She'd never thought of life outside the Musketeers. It just never seemed to be in the cards for her. She didn't have anything else. Just the Musketeers, Aramis, Athos, d'Artagnan, and even Treville. But being with Alic, it was starting to make her believe other things were possible.

"You have a fantastic cook." Porthos said after the dishes were cleared away. She'd taken off her studded doublet and hung it on the back of the chair, leaving her in her shirtsleeves.

Alic nodded. "Charlene didn't take much pleasure in food. She always felt self-discipline as a moral virtue."

"Oh." She drank the last of her wine.

"But I imagine a soldier such as yourself is very disciplined as well." He said.

"When we're fightin'." She agreed. "Off duty, well..." she stared at the table top instead of him, playing with her empty glass, her bangs falling into her eyes.

She was startled when she felt his fingertips brush her temple as he brushed her wavy hair aside to gaze upon her hidden face. "Sorry."

She shook her head. "That's... that's alright."

"You're very beautiful, Porthos." He murmured, and before she could respond, he leaned across the corner of the table and caught her lips softly. The touch of his lips lingered, even after he leaned back. "Apologies, I couldn't stop myself."

"No apology necessary." She said, and then she was the one kissing him.

Alic stood and took her hand. "You—"

She grinned. "I'd lead the way, but only get lost."

He laughed, kissing her again before he lead her from the dinning room and to his own.

* * *

Next time he was alone in the house, Bonacieux snooped through d'Artagnan's room. In his end table drawer, he found the coin purse, minus its 30 _livres_ , but present was the forget-me-not medallion. Something to show his new friend the Cardinal.

* * *

Treville stood in the yard with a dish that was slowly filling with coin purses as the Musketeers handed in their 30 _livres_ entry fee.

Porthos had pawned the gold candle snuffer that Alic had given her, which afforded her more than the 30 _livres_ that she needed. Though neither said, they both knew that had been her beginning intention, but just after the short time they had spent together, it was heading in a direction neither of them expected.

The tall woman sent out a good-natured cat-call as she turned and spotted Aramis with the reputable _Madame_ Marchand in the garrison tunnel saying farewell. "Entry fee?" she asked the woman

"I've earned it, believe me." She said, putting her amount on the pile. The two woman each chose a harquebus and support post for the first test. "So, it looked like your widow worked out."

"That an' more." Porthos replied as she primed her weapon.

d'Artagnan arrived. "Looks like I'm just in time!" and put his fee in entry. Treville nodded to him, and the Gascon picked a harquebus and pronged post from the stand.

"'Ow did you raise the money?" Porthos wondered.

"Found at patroness of my own." He said, raising his harquebus and checking the charge. Athos smiled at the news, this would give the young man the chance that he had been hoping for. She had been close to offering her own patronage, but knew he would take more offence on it than not.

"Oh?" Aramis raised a brow. "Perhaps the beautiful _Madame_ Bonacieux?" She winked.

"Someone else." He answered, and said nothing further.

"A wealthy widow?" she asked as the four of them stood in line in the yard, facing the set up targets.

"Not as far as I know." He lined up his shot.

"Right, ladies and gentleman. When you're ready." Treville called ready.

And they fired. It was a no-brainier that their expert markswoman won the round. There were five rings to the target. Athos hit second from the center ring, Porthos forth from the center, d'Artagnan cursed as he landed same as Athos. Aramis waited to fire until last, a quark to the corner of her lips. Why not give the little guys hope. She hit dead center and doffed her hat to each of them cockily.

Next round, was hand-to-hand—Porthos' love child. d'Artagnan flinched round after round as Porthos stood against each Musketeer in turn. It was a brutal showing and d'Artagnan flinched every time Porthos' hit landed. They were like rag dolls in her lithe construction. And then it was his turn. He always found it an interesting experience to have the world turned upside down; literally, when Porthos swept his feet from under him and then took him up by the ankles—he hadn't been the first on such treatments either.

He was failing, and he knew it. How could Treville think him worthy to represent the Musketeers? The Inseparables all brought something to the table; Aramis with her sharp shooting, Porthos with her hand-to-hand, and Athos' skill with a sword—they were all the best in the regiment. He knew it was going to be one of the three that Treville chose, and he was starting to question what his place even was there.

The last test was a duel. This was his last chance to prove himself. He knew that he must be facing Athos.

"Remember," Athos told him. "Head over heart. Treville will be assessing your attitude as well as your skill."

"Wait." He furrowed his brow at the woman's given advice and what it meant. "I'm not fighting you?"

"Over here, kid." Aramis called and he turned to find the Spaniard stretching. "Just me and you."

He inhaled deeply and brushed his rapier and _main_ _gauche_ together. d'Artagnan nodded and rolled his shoulders, squaring off with the woman. They saluted each other with their own flourish as the others watched on. Whether it was Athos, or Aramis, he couldn't fail, he couldn't let this chance go.

He struck first and she met him. He swung his knife, but Aramis flicked it aside, jumping back. Before taking that step forward and pointing sword point at his chest. He backed up a pace before he came at her with a double-tap, and then spun, aiming low. She blocked with her sword and slashed overhead with her _gauche_. He ducked the swing and she put a boot flat to his chest, throwing him back into the mud. He spat and came up swinging. She countered his move and they slowly circled each other. He came at her again, unrelenting. Using both blades, it seemed she parried and blocked him at every turn.

 _Head over heart_. Athos' words repeated to him. And he took a breath at the brief pause in the attack. He would not let his heart overwhelm his actions. This wasn't life or death, but it felt like it. He refused to look over to Treville and gauge his expression, but he was going to take this seriously and focus what was in front of him. _Head over heart._

He slashed overhead. Aramis blocked it with a crossing of her two blades. He stabbed with his knife, and in a bold move, she raised her leg and kicked it from his hand, leaving him unbalanced. She threw his blade aside and slashed at him with her sword. He jumped back to avoid it, and turned, tucking his shoulder in and going into a somersault. He cam back up on his feet again, facing the woman and once again brandishing two blades, having swiped up his lost _gauche_ in his roll.

Aramis looked at him for his impressive move. She let him come at her again briefly, before they circled. And she smiled as she looked across their connected blades and saw his eyes dancing. He laughed as he caught Athos eyes briefly over the Spaniard's shoulder as the moved, and made a "Well..." gesture at her.

Despite his recent mood, his desperation and his anger, he was having fun striking swords with Aramis. He forgot about where his fee came from and what implications might lie behind them. And his confidence on this matter started to return. He could do this, he knew. He could make this happen.

Treville fingered his goatee as he watched the Gascon, slowly making up his mind on the matter. His eyes met across with Athos' and her eyes glowed.

* * *

Treville held off on announcing the man who would represent the King's Musketeers in the competition against the Cardinal's Red Guards. He had secreted himself to the Red Guards barracks and saw the Cardinal himself make an appearance—with a surprise guest.

Richelieu was up to his dirty tricks again. Treville shouldn't have expected more from the man, he just wasn't built that way. Commissioning Labarge into the Red Guards just to participate and facilitate a win in the competition was a despicable missive. But what had made him believe that the Cardinal would change his colours now?

He thoughts of allowing d'Artagnan as the champion vanished from his mind. He couldn't risk the outcome. He had facilitated this competition in the first place when he challenged the Cardinal boldly in front of the King. He couldn't let another deal with the aftermath. He alone must accept the consequence. He knew what he had to do. The lad, Inseparables and other men weren't going to like it, but he didn't see any other option in the matter.

* * *

Porthos found herself in the aftermaths of orgasm, laying sated in Alic's arms.

"All these places you've been... it makes me realize that I've never been more than five miles out of Paris." Alic murmured, his hand lightly trailing up and down her arm. "Isn't that a sad fact?"

"It's never too late." She said. "With your keen tongue... you should go."

He chuckled. "Are you trying to tell me something, Porthos?"

She grinned at him. "Jus' that you're a very talented man."

"You could come." He whispered. "Be my guide."

She sighed quietly and settled her head back on to broad chest. "The places I've been... I've never 'ad much time for sight-seein'—someone was always tryin' to kill me."

He chuckled lightly at her dry remark and shifted, laying her down and leaning up on his elbow, looking upon her. "Have you never thought what you'd do if you weren't a soldier?"

She nibbled her lip in thought as his fingertips brushed a line between her breasts. "Becomin' a Musketeer... was the best the best thing that ever 'appened to me. It saved my life, ironically enough." She turned her head and looked at him. "Until I met you, that is." And reached up to around the nape of his neck and pulled him in for a kiss.

He chuckled. "Flattery will afford you my keen tongue." He paused and looked at her gently, cupping her cheek. "Another life _is_ possible." He whispered. "If you want it." And pressed his lips to the scar over her left eye.

* * *

d'Artagnan had hardly slept that night. In the morning, his future would be cast. He almost didn't want the sun to rise, to prevent a possible bad outcome. But the world didn't pause because of his own fears, and morning came at a faster pace than he had anticipated. And so, before he left for the garrison, he decided that he could use all the luck he could get, and searched his room for the forget-me-not necklace. But was bewildered when he couldn't find it. He was sure that he had put it in the drawer.

"Have you lost something?" Constance spoke up from the doorway, trepidation over their angry previous parting.

He turned to her. "Nothing important." She nodded and gave him a small smile. "I should go." She straightened at that, an unknown fear taking her. He seemed to have sensed it. "Treville's choosing his champion this morning."

"Of course," she breathed in relief and gave him a bright, confident smile, despite the rolling in her stomach. "Good luck."

He nodded, his hand briefly brushing her shoulder as he passed after her. She frowned as she heard the front door slam. This was a big day for d'Artagnan, whether the news was good or bad. She couldn't bear the thought that he might be upset with her, after the previous day. She didn't want for him to go into this with a clouded head.

And so she picked up her skirts, and ran after him. "d'Artagnan!" she chased the Gascon down the street. He stopped and turned to her, allowing her to catch up, breathless.

"Constance, what are you—"

"You were right." She interrupted him. "I was jealous of Milady."

His eyes flickered as the name clicked into place. _Milady de Winter_. That was the name to this mysterious woman. Constance had mentioned her before, but he didn't make the connection, because he hadn't rightly known her name. This was something, at least.

"Of course you had to take her money." She spoke unaware through his revelation. "It's just... well, she's... so beautiful... and glamorous and... wealthy. So it's left me to wonder what you could possibly see in me... when all there is, is me."

He shook his head. Milady might portray those appearances, but he had glimpsed her true character on occasion, had been a victim in it at one time or another. He took her hand. "You..." he was breathless. "You shine so brightly in my eyes, it puts all other woman in the shade."

Her cheeks turned rose as she was rocked by his passion, aimed straight at her. "Well..." she swallowed. "That's a good answer, that."

"It's the truth." He whispered, and gulped himself. "Look... I'm going to win this competition, alright. And I know everything else is going to work out for us. I don't want you to worry. Okay? I meant what I said."

Constance nodded and she reached up, pulling the Gascon in for a kiss, not caring that they were in the street and someone might recognize her as Bonacieux's wife. But she should have worried, because Bonacieux _did_ see as he kept on the oblivious trail of d'Artagnan and fury filled his head.

d'Artangna kissed her cheek before he pulled back completely. "I'll see you later with news." She nodded, biting her lip and he headed back to the garrison.

* * *

d'Artagnan gathered with the other Musketeers as Treville addressed them, mounted on the stairs.

"Choosing a champion from such a fine group of soldiers is a near impossible task."

Athos clapped him on the shoulder confidently, and he raised his chin.

"For that reason, I have decided that the only person who can fairly represent you..." Treville took a deep breath and stood firm. "Is me."

There was a brief silence as they took the news, then mutters as the slowly broke up.

d'Artagnan was held frozen as everything crashed down around him. His chance at a future were whipped. He failed... he had _failed_.

Athos knew there was nothing more harsher than watching the purpose leave a man, to watch someone's dreams drain away in a moment. Anger took her as she looked after him with concern as he bolted from the garrison, and turned to watch Treville's own back as he went up into his office.

* * *

Bonacieux was waiting for her when she returned home, unaware of what he now knew. His anger had been building and was mounting into a viciousness that he didn't know until d'Artagnan had come into their lives. Constance was _his_ wife, and he would not let another man have her!

"Was you're life so bad, Constance?" he murmured, his back to her as he gazed out the window, his hands clasped tight behind his back. "Was I ever cruel to you? Did I _beat_ you?"

Constance paused and looked at his back, and suddenly, she knew that he knew. She didn't know how, but he did. "You were never cruel, and I wasn't unhappy." She answered him slowly. "At least... I didn't _know_ I was."

He turned to her, his expression frozen. "Until d'Artagnan came here."

She couldn't quite look him in the eyes and he nodded to himself, as if that kiss wasn't proof enough. A kiss that _s_ _he_ had initiated. He clenched his hands hard from her view, struggling to tamp down his temper, lest he strike her. "I order you to break with him immediately." He turned back to the window.

She didn't love Bonacieux, and if she did for any amount at any point in their lives together, it was never with the passion and conviction that she did d'Artagnan. She took a deep breath, gathering her courage inside his anger. "I'm sorry to cause you pain. But I won't give him up—I love him."

He whipped around at her proclamation, his face twisted in anger. "End your affair, or d'Artagnan will be dead within the week."

She let out a short laugh. "Don't be ridiculous! What are you talking about?" it was the most absurd thing she had ever heard the man say.

He seethed. "I have powerful friends now. That new client I told you of—is the Cardinal." And then she realized. The day before. The sudden money he had come into, the expensive bracelet he had gotten her, this new 'friend' of his. "And believe me, he hates your lover even more than I."

But Constance shook her head. "Why would he kill him just on your say-so?"

"Because of a plot I overheard d'Artagnan hatching." He waved his hand. "Some attempts on the Cardinal himself. Do you honestly think he'd stop and ask questions?"

"You're bluffing." She insisted.

"Give him up, or he _dies_. It's your choice." She stood stock-still as he approached. "Break his heart so thoroughly,"—his breath was harsh against her face as his nose pressed against hers—"That he will never look at you the same again, or at all. You will make him hate you, understand?" It was only until he saw the true fear and helplessness in her eyes that he left the room.

Her breath shuddered in her chest and tears flooded her eyes. This was not how it was supposed to go. For the first time in her life, she was afraid of her husband. It didn't matter that if push came to shove, with the defence that d'Artagnan had taught her, she could overpower the man—for this was a fear she had never felt before. Not when Marsac attack her, or Milady approached her, not even when she killed that man defending Aramis and Agnes' baby, Henry.

* * *

Treville had hardly sat behind his desk before Athos stormed into his office, furious.

"This is wrong." He made no answer and she continued. "d'Artagnan is ready. You saw him, how much he's approved. I know you were going to choose him. Why did you suddenly change your mind?"

He didn't answer her question and instead replied, "Not too long ago, you were in that same spot branding him unprepared and immature."

"And wasn't it you who said that he had to prove himself sometime?" She returned harshly in-kind. "So why not now? Hmm?"

"This challenge is my own doing." He said. "It's my responsibility to see it through."

"Instead of giving yourself one last moment of glory, " She slammed her fist on the desk, "You should be giving d'Artagnan the chance to win his commission from the King."

"You think this about glory?" he was surprised.

She straightened. "All I know is that d'Artagnan has it in him to be a fine Musketeer—perhaps the greatest of us all. But now?" she shook her head. "Now we'll never know, because _you_ , have stolen his best chance to prove it." And she left with a sneer on her face, slamming the door.

Treville sighed and rubbed a hand over his face as he leaned back, haggard. He knew there would be backlash, but that didn't mean the infliction hurt any less.

* * *

Each step he took towards the Bonacieux residence was like a punch in the gut. d'Artagnan wished for anything else, but after everything they had together, Constance needed to know the truth.

When he entered the kitchen, he found her seated quiet at the other end of the table. He gripped the back of the chair closest to him in physical and emotional support. "I didn't get it, Treville took the fight himself."

"Well, then." She murmured quietly. She was pale and had tried to pinch some colour back into her cheeks. She swallowed and continued, even though every word from then on would tear her heart. "I suppose that puts an end your daydreams." She knew how trampled he must be, how broken. But if she didn't do this... better a broken heart than a dead one.

He looked over at her in confused startlement. "What do you mean?" He was still in shock himself, his dreams shattered. Each breath he took was a hard one, crackling through his still sore throat.

She stood and faced him. "We're fooling ourselves, d'Artagnan. There's no future for us together."

"Constance," he shook his head. "Why are you suddenly saying these things after—"

"I'm a _married_ woman!" she snapped. "And this..." she waved her hand and huffed, " _Silly_ flirtation has to end."

"Flirtation?" he gasped. "I _love_ you."

She looked at him with disdain. "But I _don't_ love _you_."

He balked at the cold retort and removal of affection. He didn't understand, he couldn't comprehend. He had believed, that even though he didn't get the chance for commission... but, maybe it wasn't that. "If this is about Milady de Winter—"

"You should go to her." She said, and continued harshly, "You'll be needing a rich mistress now. You've got _nothing_. No commission. No farm. No prospects left to you. Perhaps Milady will feel sympathy or pity... and look after you."

He shook his head, tears burning in his broken eyes. "I don't want her. I don't want her, I want _you."_ He pleaded desperately, reaching out as he stepped closer.

She turned from him and to the fire, unable to look at him and not burst into tears. If he saw her face this close, he would know she had been crying, that something was truly wrong. Instead, it just looked like the cold-shoulder.

A sob tore at his abused throat and he choked on it. "Constance..." his voice was broken. "Look at me. Please!"

She felt her hatred for Bonacieux rise, and harshly, she used it as a way to lash out at d'Artagnan. She just wanted him to leave so she could break down and cry already! "I was tempted, I'll admit that. You are young and handsome. But I can't risk my future on someone who has none." He couldn't meet her eyes and sucked in a harsh breath. "I have far too much to lose, and you give me far too little to gain."

There was silence between them and all she could hear was his harsh breathing and she held her breath, forcing back the climbing sob up her throat.

This was a bitter truth that he knew that he was going to have to face at one point or another. Why would Constance want to love a man as him? He had _nothing_ to offer as she had pointed out.

He chocked. "I'm sure you made the right decision. What use is it to love a failed man, compared to money? Thank you for helping me see things most clearly." And he fled, slamming the door harshly behind him.

Her breath shuddered savagely in her chest as she was coming apart, but it wasn't until Bonacieux stepped from the sewing room where he had been listening the entire time, offered her a satisfied nod and leave, did she break down.

A sob clawed harshly from her throat and she clapped her hands over her mouth as tears burned down her cheeks. Her knees gave and she collapsed to the floor. Not once in her fear, did it occur to her to tell him the truth. Of the threat Bonacieux presumed on him. Perhaps if she had, things might have been different. But if ever there was a monster, it was the likes of her.

* * *

The competition for the best was underway. The King had made a small arena in Louvre's backyard just for the occasion. A fenced-in dirt pen; on one end, the Musketeers' tent and its men lined up; the Red Guards' tent was set up on the other side. On the third, was the spectator bleachers. Across from them on the last side, were two constructed raised stalls for the King and the Cardinal.

There was a gap next to Athos that didn't belong. d'Artagnan was supposed to be filling it. She could understand why he might now want to attend, after all that he was going through. But if he ever did want to become a Musketeer, he was going to have to stop being childish and start acting the professional.

Unnoticed, Milady sat among the crowd. But Aramis recognized Alic from the church, even at this distance.

"You invited your widow?" she questioned Porthos next to her in surprise.

"'Is name is Alic." The tall woman's reply was clipped.

"You only needed 30 _livre_ , not a husband." She scoffed.

"Did I say anythin' about marriage?" Her voice was hard. Aramis raised a brow. "No. I didn't."

"My God." She gasped, looking at her best friend. Porthos stared straight ahead. "I was only kidding, but you're actually considering it?"

Porthos finally looked at her and said softly. "There is a life beyond the Musketeers, you know."

Aramis wasn't much amused any longer. Porthos was considering leaving the Musketeers? The thought was just unfathomable to the Spaniard. This was Porthos, her life, everything she had fought so hard for. Not once had she heard the woman talk of leaving. Fear seized her heart and she clenched her hand to stop from grasping onto the woman and claiming her prisoner.

"You—"

"Well, one thing I've learned..." d'Artagnan muttered, stepping into place between Porthos and Athos. "Never put your trust in love." They all looked at him in surprise, for there was such a loathing and astringent cut to the usually curious and young tone. He let the bitterness mask the broken.

"I fear you would not come." Athos remarked, her gaze intense as she looked aside at him, standing rigid. She noted the curious bruise on his cheek and the scraped knuckles of his already bruise right hand where it clenched his belt.

"Where else would I have gone?" Was the barely audible whispered response.

"The Musketeers' champion, the former warrior, Captain Treville!" The announcer center-arena stopped any further comment as he brought the event to a start.

The truth was, d'Artagnan wasn't sure he would have made it. After his leave of the Bonacieux house, he'd just ran and kept on running. His broken heart blinded him as much as the tears in his eyes. Any thoughts of coming to the competition to watch Treville fight was not in the vicinity of his thoughts. He just wanted the pain to end.

When his father lay dead in his arms, and a hole was left in him that nothing could quite fill—he had screamed into the thunderstorm until his throat was hoarse, and then it was his anger that fuelled him and carried him the rest of the way to Paris. He would find his father's killer, and help him take leave of this world. Nothing else had mattered to him. There was no plan beyond that. If it killed him, then so be it, as long as the murderer died first. But then he had met the Inseparables...

Before he had even realized it, he was at the city limits. A few more steps and he would be outside of Paris. He could leave this wretched heartbreak behind him and go... go—he had no where to go. He had nothing. His childhood home, was burnt from the world. His heart was torn from his chest with gouging fingernails and put to heel. He had... nothing.

 _ **"'E's part of th' group now!"**_

 _ **"We'll make a Musketeer out of you yet, d'Artagnan."**_

 _ **"It takes a different kind of man to survive among those three," he said. "They're no angels, son."**_  
 _ **"But they are, sir. These women are warrior angels, and they're**_ _ **beautiful**_ _ **."**_

 _ **.**_

 _ **"They're my friends, my sisters"**_ _ **—**_ _ **My Angels**_ _ **—**_

 _ **"Eh," she shrugged. "Red's not your colour anyhow."**_

 _ **.**_

 _ **"Come on, d'Artagnan! Where's your sense of adventure? Of excitement?"**_

 _ **"Charlie," she tsked gently. "There are a great many things you need not know—but my speaking to the dearly departed... I would entrust that secret to you, little brother."**_

 _ **"And as soldiers, it is our business."**_

 _ **"If you think this is weird and creepy, then you are still innocent yet, Charlie."**_

 _ **.**_

 _ **"You're young yet, feverent, to understand quiet yet. But someday, hopefully very far from now—this life will put calluses on your heart, Charlie."**_

 _ **"You're in this life now, Charlie."**_

 _ **"There's always a chance that something might go wrong, d'Artagnan. Nothing in this world is predictable. Nothing."**_

 _ **.**_

 _ **"Charlie here is as bright and capable as any woman."**_

 _ **"I knew there was a reason I liked you—"**_

 _ **.**_

 _ **"You fought for this chance. Now fight to prove you're ready."**_

 _ **"You have natural talent**_ _ **—but you too often let your emotions run away with you. Talent won't keep you alive if your heart rules your head."**_

 _ **"I'm not like you."**_  
 _ **"You are. More so than you know."**_

 _ **.**_

But that was wrong. Constance may have crushed him, but he had Athos and Aramis and Porthos. They were the family that he found after he lost his father. He wasn't alone, because he had _them_. And suddenly, it was like a weight lifted off his heart. He turned, taking the first deep breath he had in what felt like a long time _ **—**_ and ran straight into a pair of Red Guards.

d'Artagnan clapped along with the others as Treville strode determinedly from the tent and to the center of the arena.

"And representing the Red Guards, their champion..." the man gestured to the Guards tent. d'Artagnan caught sight of a beaten-looking Lavoie across the way. "Captain Labarge!"

There was scattered applause as Martin Labarge came out of the Red Guards' tent in uniform, shoving passed Lavoie, who stumbled into the man next to him. But the Musketeers didn't move.

"This is some sort of sick joke!" d'Artagnan hissed, fire burning his throat. He rubbed it in an angry manner.

"Be that as it may," Aramis agreed. "The Captain isn't surprised."

They all looked to their Captain to find the man cool as a cucumber as he warmed up.

"He knew." Porthos gasped.

Athos briefly met Treville's steady gaze before the man turned back to face Labarge and now she knew the reason for his change of heart. He _had_ been intending to make d'Artagnan their champion, to give him the chance to make a commission that was much deserved. But somehow, he had found out of the Cardinal's dirty little trick of commissioning Labarge into the Red Guards. It wasn't for the spotlight of glory, but in an act of protecting one of his men.

"The shooting and wrestling rounds have been waived!" The announcer called. "The contest will be settled in favour of the superior swordsman." He bowed to the King and stepped from between Treville and Labarge.

Athos glanced beside her at d'Artagnan, who had his gaze trained on the man who had taken his farm from him. He was tight-lipped, and she could see the gears turning in his head, the emotion filtering through his brown eyes.

Labarge struck first, without warning or respectful salute, but Treville parried the attack expertly. Labarge's strikes were hard and fast. There was a force behind it that made Treville stumble back. But the Captain recovered and struck back. There blades locked briefly and Labarge took the opportunity to head butt the man harshly. Blood dribbled from Treville's nose and Labarge struck in the dazed moment. The Musketeers tensed, but their Captain managed to get his sword up in time.

"Come on!" Treville screamed at the large man, slashing at him overhead.

Their blades moved fast together in a flurry of strikes, and upon their parting, Labarge threw his dagger at the man without much success. Next the two men met, Treville drew blood.

Labarge met the Cardinal's eyes and gave the big man a subtle nod. _Kill the Musketeers' champion and you go free._ He narrowed his eyes, and with a cry, he went after the Captain.

The attack was brutal. Labarge beat the man down, and though Treville fought back onto his feet, it was only to be thrown back against the rail. Labarge punched him twice before Treville was able to return the gesture. Labarge slashed at him, and he ducked, before managing to knock the man's sword from hand. Labarge grabbed him, and with a shout, picked him up bodily and threw him to the ground. Managing to keep his sword in-hand, Treville started to climb to his feet.

Labarge bent and retrieved his own sword. He liked to beat things, it was much more satisfying to him than a clean death with the sword. And so he turned his sword around, gasping the blade instead, and beat Treville to the ground with the hilt, before he could even get up. Treville rolled and attempted to get to his feet again, but Labarge kicked his sword from hand and put a boot to his chest.

Treville groaned from where he lay on his back, and looked up to find Labarge over him. His eyes had only time to widen before the scream was ripped from his throat. Labarge brought his foot down brutally into Treville's shoulder. The snap was audible. The crowd gasped in shock, the Musketeers protested.

"He'll kill him." And d'Artagnan moved on his own accord, unsheathing his sword. He was already nearly to Treville before the Inseparables threw aside their blue capes and were also on the move. "Labarge!"

"What the hell are you doing?" Treville managed to demand in a gasp of pain as he clutched his shoulder, still on the ground.

"Saving your life." He answered, eyes only for Labarge.

The Red Guards didn't much like Labarge, but he was winning and that was all they cared about. So when the Musketeer scum invaded the field, their metal met upon the middle in clash.

"Stop!" the King stood and called. Almost instantly the fighting stop and they all turned to Louis. Athos pulled Treville to his feet. "Your man broke the rules, Cardinal. Captain Treville may nominate another champion is he so wishes."

There was an expectant silence as they waited. Treville looked at Athos, who nodded firmly. Treville gave his own nod and straightened despite the pain radiating from his shoulder and turned to the King. "I nominate d'Artagnan to take my place."

There was murmuring amongst the other Musketeers as they flowed back towards the tent, but with an ultimate acceptance. d'Artagnan was in shock, he hadn't been expecting this at all. Treville nodded to him, before heading back towards the tent.

"Your shoulder," Aramis started towards him.

But Treville moved from her reach. "It can wait."

Porthos clapped him encouragingly on the shoulder before following the others.

"Head over heart." Athos murmured in passing. d'Artagnan nodded and released a big breath as he turned to face the man he hated, the field cleared.

Labarge laughed as he realised who it was that his next opponent was. "My little friend from the Bastille?" he grinned. "You look even more pathetic in the daylight. I'm going to enjoy this."

"Somehow," he said bitterly, "I doubt it."

d'Artagnan came at him quick, Labarge parried. There blades locked, Labarge checked the smaller man aside and to the ground. Labarge slashed at him, but d'Artagnan rolled from harms-way. He kicked and slashed at the man's legs, knowing he must have made a mark at the man cursed and jumped backwards. d'Artagnan took the pause to jump back onto his feet. Though he drew blood, he wasn't going to get cocky—he was going to kill.

They circled.

"Is that the best you got?" Labarge laughed.

d'Artagnan's expression twisted in anger, but he made no response and waited for Labarge to come at him. There blades locked and Labarge grabbed his sword hand. d'Artagnan grimaced at the already injured limb. He could feel the bones grinding as Labarge attempted to crush his hand. d'Artagnan struggled to get out of it, as Labarge held him close, towering over him, crowding him.

The Inseparable's held their breaths, their heart pounding collectively in their chest as they watched their brother struggle.

d'Artagnan rose his knee. His aim and power were a little off at the close proximity, and he struck the man's thigh instead. The man cursed and the Gascon seized the falter to break the hold and slashed at the man. Labarge arched back and slashed back in a fast strike.

d'Artagnan twisted. There was cries from the Musketeers, but he straightened, breathing hard, adrenaline replacing his blood. They let out a breath, believing him unscathed.

"I wish I could remember burning down your farm! It would make killing you a lot sweeter!"

d'Artagnan lunged at him with a growl, double-tapping him. Labarge pressed back against him hard, and booted him in the stomach. The air left the Gascon, and he stumbled backward, his lungs burning, but he managed to stay his feet. Labarge stabbed, and d'Artagnan moved minimally to avoid the deathly blow, making the man come in close. He grabbed Labarge's sword hand and in a flow of moves, twirled around the man and stabbed him through his front. The King gasped, impressed at the display.

The blade slid in deep and smooth, and their position held. Labarge choked in his ear.

"That's for the people of Gascony." He hissed harshly in the brute's ear. And then jerked his blade free. A groan left Labarge as he dropped back to the ground like a sack of heavy stones and d'Artagnan looked down at him with satisfaction. The Inseparables converged on him, giving congratulations.

"Bravo, d'Artagnan!" the King called. "I herby declare the Musketeer regiment the winners." The crowd applauded. He said aside to the Cardinal, "Ah, yes, now, the prize money is forfeit to the Treasurer. After all, the rules were broken." The pair climbed down the stairs and approached the Musketeers.

d'Artagnan bowed along with the others, starting to feel the stitch in his side. He ignored it as he straightened again.

The King addressed him. "You defended your Captain with great heroism toady. I admire loyalty more than any other virtue. Please kneel."

d'Artagnan looked at him in confusion. "Get on your knees before he changes his mind." Athos muttered to him and he obeyed.

At the King's gesture, his attendant gave him royal sword, and another passed along a pauldron beyond d'Artagnan's view, to a grinning Aramis, who passed it on to Athos.

"I herby commission you," Louis tapped d'Artagnan on both shoulders with the flat of the his sword, "Into my regiment of Musketeers." d'Artagnan let out a breathless and unexpected laugh at this and was startled as Athos bent next to him and started to strap the Musketeer pauldron with the Fleur-de-lis onto his shoulder. "May you serve it always with the same distinction that I witnessed today." They bowed again as the King left them. The Cardinal made his own leave with a bitter expression and more resentful than when he arrived, and Milady with a conflicted one.

d'Artagnan grinned as he turned to the others and hugged his Angels in jubilation. They returned it to him in-kind.

"Well done, d'Artagnan." Treville said and the Gascon turned to the Captain. "I'm proud to have you under my command." He held out his right hand, and d'Artagnan shook his hand firmly.

"As I am to be under it, sir."

"Alright." Aramis clapped her hands and drew their attention. "In the tent with the pair of you. That shoulder needs to be bound, Captain. And Charlie... I see you." She gave the Gascon a pointed and challenging look.

"I'm fine." He protested the automatic retort. But he wasn't fine, not on so many levels.

He allowed himself to be ushered into the Musketeer tent with Treville, but the Captain's injury took precedence and he was fine with that. The King was generous enough to send the palace's physician Lemay and Aramis welcomed the man's assistance in binding what turned out to be a broken collarbone.

d'Artagnan could feel Athos' piercing gaze like a hot torch held close to the skin. He kept his gaze down and stayed silent. He knew that she wanted answers, but knew that for the moment, he didn't want to speak them. Like, exactly how he had gotten those fresh bruises _before_ his fight with Labarge.

He startled at Aramis' gentle hand on his shoulder. "Charlie." He hissed and she narrowed her eyes. "What have you done to yourself?"

"This and that." He retorted and she raised a pointed brow. He looked sheepish in turn. "Sorry. It's... it's been a long couple days, Aramis."

She nodded her allowance from where she knelt in front of him, noting the bruise on his cheek that she didn't recall him receiving in the duel. But her main concern with the discovered tear in his doublet across his ribs that she only noticed until now. "Off with the doublet."

He made to protest. He had just gotten his pauldron, he didn't want to take it off. He felt as if it was the only thing holding him together now. Athos took a single and pointed step forward. If he didn't, she would assist him.

Reluctantly, he did. And he felt naked in a different kind of way. Exposed and vulnerable. He wanted to hide from their sight. He was sure they could see all his secrets, knew what a broken man looked like, held together with but a single stitch afforded to him—his pauldron.

"Need me to do anythin'?" Porthos asked, eager to speak with Alic before the man departed. Aramis' droll stare was all the answer she needed and the tall woman left the tent.

Aramis turned back to d'Artagnan and inspected his left-side straight-off. She remembered the slash, their cries, he'd done a lithe twist and they had breathed in relief. The relief stayed as she traced with her finger over the raised welt.

His skin twitched at her touch. "Well," she remarked. "You're one lucky son of a bitch if I ever knew one." It appeared that Labarge's blade had sliced through both doublet and shirtsleeves, and grazed his ribs so minimally that it didn't even break the skin.

"Yes, lucky." He said bitterly.

She furrowed her brows at the remark, but her attention was turned elsewhere at the molten bruising on his torso. She remember Labarge kicking him in the stomach, but the bruising she was seeing, didn't fit with that. "And what happened here?" He gave her a stubborn look, and grunted as she prodded his ribs to check for any breaks. There were none. "Speak," she said, "Or I'll sick my assistant on you." She threw a thumb behind her at Athos.

d'Artagnan gaze flickered to the blue-eyed woman briefly before looking away. "I might have gotten into a fight before I got here." He mumbled.

"Hmm? A fight?" Aramis repeated in _that_ tone. "With whom if I might ask?"

He felt like a child. Instead of answering, he tugged his shirtsleeves back over head, but before he could grab his doublet Aramis stole it for herself and stood next to Athos.

"I'm not a child—I'm a _Musketeer_ —give me my jacket." He growled, standing him up.

"If this is what you act like as a Musketeer," Athos said harshly, "Than more's the pity to Paris."

d'Artagnan stopped and looked at her. Hurt and grief and anger burned through his eyes. "I was leaving! Alright?" he shouted at them. They pair looked at him in stunned silence. "I—" he crossed his arms over his chest, but it seemed more like a grasp. "Constance, she—" he stopped himself. Their affair was a secret one, one that the Inseparables didn't even know about. And now that there was nothing left of it, what would be the point of its revelation?

But the truth was, they did know. How could they not?

"I'm sorry, Charlie." Aramis murmured in sympathy. A broken heart was a harsh pain. She handed to Gascon his doublet.

His grip clenched around the material. He took a deep breath and told them of the brief encounter with the two Red Guards who recognized him from the brawl in the street with Labarge and the other Red Guards, when he decided to turn back.

Athos' grip on her sword hilt tightened. "What made you decide to stay?"

"You, Aramis, Porthos... and the Musketeers." d'Artagnan whispered, pulling his doublet back on. "Even if there was no commission. This is all I need." There was a desperation in his eyes. "This is all I have." He took a deep breath. "I have to go back to Bonacieux's and get my things."

"Do you want—?" Athos started to offer, but he shook his head.

"No. No, this—it's something I need to do on my own." He admitted.

They nodded and let him pass them by to leave.

"We could have lost him." Aramis whispered, aghast. "And we didn't even know it."

"But we didn't." Athos replied firmly. "And we won't." Not if she had anything to say about it.

Aramis nodded, and then her eyes widened. "Porthos!" and she went in search of her best-friend, afraid of what news the tall woman might be bearing.

* * *

"I'm curious... which side is it that you are on?" the Cardinal remarked.

"Yours, of course." She laughed.

"Really." He nodded. "So, why did you provide the fund for d'Artagnan's involvement? Why so invested in this young man?"

"Have you been spying on me?" she demanded.

He rolled his eyes. "I need to know who my friends are, Milady. Did you think that I wouldn't be curious of your obsession with the Musketeer Athos? Were you hoping that I would never find out that you were the lover of the Comtesse de la Fère?"

Milady gritted her teeth and glared. "If you wish to see the Musketeers destroyed, d'Artagnan is the key." She raised her chin, rage concealed in her green eyes. "I'm planning to bring him over to our side."

The Cardinal laughed at the absurdity. "Honestly? Do you think after getting his commission now, he'll be turned? If he didn't before, he won't now."

"You underestimate the powers of seduction."

"For your sake, Milady, I hope you're as persuasive as you believe."

* * *

Porthos walked hand-in-hand with Alic at Louvre, not far from the ring where people were still departing. She couldn't ever remember holding hands with a lover. In fact, she hadn't accumulated many herself since she became a Musketeer. The fact that she dressed as a man, wielded a sword with skill and could use her fists with such brutality if forced. Her scars, and sometimes loud and dirty remarks—it took a certain kind of man to like that, for which there weren't many.

But she was also a woman. She had needs and feelings like any other—even if she'd killed men, been stabbed and shot. She'd been through so many hardships since just a child and felt it hard to allow herself to put the thorns away and let someone in. Especially this way, that left her more than just vulnerable and exposed.

"This is your life, isn't it?" Alic said.

Porthos pulled the man to a stop, but still held his hand. "I don't enjoy killin', Alic. But I do what I have to."

"I know, I understand that." He nodded. "But..."

"I've never seen you at a loss for words." She rumbled.

He chuckled. "Well, I've never met a woman like you." She smiled sadly at that. He narrowed his eyes and cupped her cheek, drawing her gaze back to his. "A talented, practical, beautiful woman who can take care of herself, with a boundless laugh, sense of honour and family.

She chuckled nervously, her cheeks on fire. "That's... well, then."

"Yes." He smiled. "I decided that I wanted to travel," he told her, "See the world."

"I could never give up soldierin'."

"I know. And I would never ask you to." His thumb brushed the tail of her scar. "I know what it mean's to you."

"I wish it could be different." She grasped his hand on her cheek.

"So do I." He leaned forward and kissed her. "I'm glad I met you, Porthos." And he walked away.

Aramis felt both relief and sadness as she spotted Porthos standing forlornly as she watched Alic depart. She loved Porthos, her sister and best-friend. The woman deserved to be happy, and if that meant marrying Alic, then so be it.

"So... will you marry the handsome widow?" Porthos gave her a look and Aramis grimaced. "Alic." She corrected.

She gave the Spaniard a sad smile. "'O would look after you if I did, eh?"

"That's true." She consented.

They both chuckled lightly. Aramis wrapped her arm around the tall woman's shoulder and started to lead them away, happy that the woman was slowly coming back to herself.

"'Ow's our newest Inseparable?" Porthos asked.

"Never to escape." Aramis said firmly, seriously.

Porthos raised a curious brow at her friend's wording. "Are we so unlikable that we 'ave to 'old 'im prisoner?" she mused.

"No." She grinned, "We're that lovable."

Porthos chuckled. "I knew it 'ad to be somethin'."

* * *

d'Artagnan strode determinedly into the Bonacieux house and went straight to his room. Even though he had the entire walk their to prepare himself, he didn't think he was ready to run into Constance. So it was a relief when she didn't seem to be there. He packed his things without trouble, what little he had—it was sad, but true, a bitter truth.

And stopped short as he came back and Constance was in the kitchen. She turned around to look at him and was as surprised as he was.

Her face began to crumble, not expecting to see him, but she swallowed and tried to hold herself together. Finally, her gaze was drawn to the pauldron on his right shoulder and she choked back the sob.

"Surprised, aren't you?" he was shocked at the own bitterness in his voice. "That a nothing like me, could make Musketeer?"

"You're wrong." She shook her head. "I'm happy for you."

He made no response, what exactly could he say? Was she lying, even now?

She cleared her throat and her gaze was drawn to the bag clenched in his hand. "I... I suppose you'll be living at the garrison now?"

He scoffed. "That my home now." He started for the door. "I hope you enjoy your respectable life, _Madame_." He said harshly, and then he was gone.

Constance couldn't stop herself. With tears in her eyes, she went to the window and watched him. He hated her. She broke his heart and he hated her rightly.

d'Artagnan felt like he wanted to be sick. His breathing harsh, he forced himself to keep going, to not stop, to not turn back and look and see if she was at the window. Until a carriage halted in front of him, blocking him into the small courtyard.

An encounter with Milady was the last thing he wanted, but it appeared as if he didn't have much say in the matter. His emotional reaction to her was different. He schooled his expression to indifferent.

"Well, if it isn't Milady de Winter." He said.

She smiled, pleased. "So you found my name."

"Yes." He replied. "Thanks for the patronage."

She nodded at his pauldron. "I knew I spotted a great talent." She paused as she looked at him. "Shouldn't you be happy? Why look as though a kicked puppy?"

"I am not a _puppy!_ " he bristled.

She smiled and her eyes racked him seductively. "That, you are not. Why so glum, d'Artagnan? Did the _Madame_ of the house break your heart?"

"What do you know of heartbreak?" he scoffed.

Milady reached up and pulled down the laced chocker around her neck, revealing the scars left behind by her attempted hanging—this was the second time he had seen them, the first, when they slept together his first night in Paris. "I know everything." He said nothing and she dropped her hand. "Everyone has a past that shapes their future, whether they are fully aware or not. Just as someone else's past can come and take away _your_ future."

"Haven't you ever heard of making your own destiny?"

"That's entirely what I'm doing." She gave him a secret smile that caused him to narrow his gaze. She opened the carriage door. "Can I offer you a lift?"

Constance turned from the window, her hands clamped over her mouth as she sobbed. She had driven the man she loved into that hateful woman's arms.

But d'Artagnan's thoughts were not the same. He watched her for a long moment. Though she played it well, he knew enough of her not to be drawn in. He closed the door. "Another time, perhaps." And he walked away. Maybe, if he didn't feel so broken, he would have taken her up on the offer. If Constance had never been in the picture, but Luck had her hands on him in that moment.

Milady's expression twisted in fury and she barked for the driven to get on. Damn the Cardinal. Damn Athos. And damn d'Artagnan! She would have her revenge when all was said and done. _Soon_ , she thought. Soon.

He released a deep breath as he made his way back to the garrison. He didn't need Constance, and he didn't want Milady. He had what he needed. Athos, Aramis and Porthos. He was a Musketeer now. The only path for him now was forward.

* * *

"Welcome home," he whispered, looking around the room. There was nothing grand or fantastical about it. It was just a simple room with simple furniture. But it was his now, from whoever had occupied it before him. He dropped his bag on the floor by the door, and dust particles danced in the air. The bed creaked as he sat on it. The mattress wasn't the worst in the world. He stared up at the ceiling. "Home, sweet home."

"What do you think you're doing?" Porthos all but kicked the door in.

d'Artagnan sat up in surprise at the three women standing in his door. "What—?"

"You just got commissioned into the Musketeers, pup. Time to celebrate!" She grinned. "There'll be enough time to sleep later."

"Porthos—" he shook his head. "I appreciate it, but I'm not really—"

"You only become a Musketeer once, d'Artagnan." Athos spoke. But the Gascon still didn't move. "Alright, ladies," she addressed her two sisters. "Pick him up."

"Wait! What?" his eyes widened as Porthos and Aramis started towards him. "No no no no!" he waved his arms, trying to ward the pair off. But they were insistent. He tried to roll to the other side of the bed, and put it between them, but Porthos grabbed his ankle and pulled him back. "Come on!" he cried.

And the next thing he knew, he was in their arms, if not more awkwardly than not. "Alright! Alright!" he pleaded for mercy, his voice muffled. "Just let me from this dark, dark place!"

Aramis laughed so hard, she lost her hold on the young man, dropping him. Porthos, still holding him, fell to the floor under him at the sudden imbalance of weight. d'Artagnan extracted his face from under the woman's arm, gasping dramatically.

Porthos glowered. "It ain't that bad—I bathed last week."

Aramis stumbled back to sit on the bed before her knees gave out and more peels of laughter filled the room. d'Artagnan grinned and burst out laughing. Porthos could feel the genuine shakes that took his body and she shared a grin with Athos leaning in amusement on the doorjamb, before her own bellowing laughter shook the place.

"You're an Inseparable now, d'Artagnan." Athos murmured through the laughter. "Better get used to it."

* * *

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eh**

 **a/n:  
Quotes**  
 **Pursuit 1:**

[Porthos] "'E's part of th' group now!"

[Athos] "We'll make a Musketeer out of you yet, d'Artagnan."

[Treville] "It takes a different kind of man to survive among those three," he said. "They're no angels, son."

[d'Artagnan] "But they are, sir." He contradicted the man, looking over the railing at the gathered women. "These women are warrior angels, and they're beautiful."

 **Pursuit 4:**

[d'Artagnan] "They're my friends, my sisters" — _My Angels_ —

[Porthos] "Eh," she shrugged. "Red's not your colour anyhow."

 **Pursuit 5:**

[Aramis] "Come on, d'Artagnan! Where's your sense of adventure? Of excitement?"

[Aramis] "Charlie," she tsked gently. "There are a great many things you need not know—but my speaking to the dearly departed... I would entrust that secret to you, little brother."

[Aramis] "And as soldiers, it is _our_ business."

[Aramis] "If you think this is weird and creepy, then you are still innocent yet, Charlie."

 **Pursuit 6:**

[Aramis] "You're young yet, feverent, to understand quiet yet. But someday, hopefully very far from now—this life will put calluses on your heart, Charlie."

[Aramis] "You're in this life now, Charlie."

[Athos] "There's always a chance that something might go wrong, d'Artagnan. Nothing in this world is predictable. _Nothing_."

 **Pursuit 7:**

[Aramis] "Charlie here is as bright and capable as any woman."

[Porthos] "I knew there was a reason I liked you—immune to what Aramis thinks is 'er charm."

 **Pursuit 8:**

[Athos] "You fought for this chance. Now fight to prove you're ready."

[Athos] "You have natural talent—but you too often let your emotions run away with you. Talent won't keep you alive if your heart rules your head."

[d'Artagnan] "I'm not like you."  
[Athos] "You are. More so than you know."

y


	9. Pursuit 9: Knight Takes Queen

**a/n:** **Disclaimer: I do not own The Musketeers, just going to borrow them and their adventures for a bit.** **No copyright infringement is intended; just some good old gender-bending!**

 **Note: I've just added a few new bits to the previous chapter, Pursuit 8, for d'Artagnan's meeting with Milady outside the Bonacieux house, so if you want to check that out, I'll wait... (*taps foot*) ...Now that that is sorted, enjoy all below! ;)**

 **Episode Tag:** _Season 1, Episode 9: Knight Takes Queen._

* * *

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

 **Charl(i)es' Angels!**  
 **Pursuit 9:** _Knight Takes Queen_ —

Milady rode from the city and towards a little farmstead for which she knew the man that she was seeking frequented. She played back on her conversation with the Cardinal.

 _"The King is unhappy in his marriage to the barren Spanish Queen. As he said, if he were to marry the Mellendorf girl, all of our problems would be solved. Our debts paid with the dowry she brings. Drunken words or not—see it done, Milady."_

When the Cardinal put her to the surprising task, she knew of just the man to do the job. She didn't have anything particular against the Queen, she was just another unknowing pawn in Richelieu's plans.

"Gallagher." She reined her horse in in front of the man. She eyed the rats burning in the fire with distaste before turning her attention to the man that she'd had past dealings with. "I have a job for you that is much better suited for your skill level."

He raised the brim of his hat and looked up at the woman with dark blue eyes. "And who will I be working for?" he didn't just work for anyone or do any job.

"Me, of course." She smiled. "And the most powerful man in France." She handed him down a small container from her saddlebag and told him of the charge.

He opened the lid, the underside designed with a forget-me-not, and in the belly, his payment. He closed the lid and tucked the box under his arm and nodded his agreement upon the contract. He would gather his men, and kill the Queen—though, for such a simple thing, they shouldn't be needed.

* * *

The young maid took the Queen's white hooded robe from around her shoulders as the Lake's edge, leaving her in a simple white gown. Barefoot, Anne stepped into the quiet water lapping softly at the edge. The water was cold, but she ignored it and delved to go in deep. Water at her waist, she pushed it. As she swam in firm strokes, she grew more accustomed to the temperature.

The clash of sword above in the flat rise almost a musical sound. More like the clink of a bell then the scrape of steel grinding.

Each year she came and swam in the waters of Bourbon-les-eaux, hoping. They were renowned for their power of fertility. She was so lonely, despite being surrounded constantly by people. But she was a Queen and not supposed to let such things bother her. She prayed every night that she would fall pregnant, to feel that life grow inside her once more. Early in her marriage to Louis, she had fallen gravid, but it wasn't to be. It took her a long time to come to terms with that, and she was starting to wonder if God was trying to tell her something after time and again she didn't take.

She paused, and took breath before diving under the surface. She bloomed like a flower and twirled, bubbles of air releasing from her nose. The water brushed her skin like cool silk. She returned to the surface, taking a deep breath as she faced the shore again and treaded water and watched the Musketeers.

Birds sang to one another in the wood, despite the racket of the intense swordplay happening in their midst, the didn't miss a note; having grown used to the act over the last three days.

d'Artagnan faced off against both Porthos and Athos on the raised bank they had claimed as their camp to watch over the lake and the Queen's tent down below on the shoreline. Every opportunity afforded to him, he was training. Just because he was now commissioned, that didn't mean there weren't still things for him to learn.

It was his first mission since he rightly became a Musketeer—finally and proudly, in both spirit _and_ name. Now, no one could claim him a follower, a would-be, a nobody. A brief flash of bitterness took him. Constance left him for it, but no longer would he feel the sting of not being good enough, because he was.

Athos saw his minute distraction, and took advantage of the opening. The path of her sword was purposeful, and she slashed her blade across the hardened leather.

"Hey!" d'Artagnan protested, glaring at her. "Watch the pauldron."

The corner of her mouth turned into a smirk. "It's too shiny, too new."

"It doesn't look right on you." Porthos came from behind him and scraped her blade against his leather. "It's like your mum's dressed you."

d'Artagnan spun and shot her a glare, his sword raised defensively in front of his as he shifted to keep both women in his line-of-sight.

Athos and Porthos shared a look that made the Gascon uneasy before one pair of bright and one pair of dark eyes trained on him. He should have been worried, for the two woman were now in silent competition to see who could land more strikes on the lad's shiny new pauldron.

He fell to the ground with a grunt as Porthos swept his feet from under him and shouted a protest as both woman grabbed either of his feet and dragged him a short distance, his right shoulder scraping across the hard dirt.

Aramis sat leaning with her back against the tree, cleaning her pistol in halting gestures, amused at the show. The sun shone down through the overhead canopy, painting caramel skin in shaded and shifting shadows and light. She sighed and turned her head towards the lake. She spotted the Queen, a small figure in a vastness of blue, as she swam with elegant and strong strokes back to the shore where her maid was waiting with her cloak and smiled.

"Hear that?" she murmured peaceably as d'Artagnan climbed to his feet with indignity.

"What?" Porthos wondered, turning to her.

"The birds. Nature. I think we've landed in paradise." Her tone suddenly went from fluid and amiably, to manic and stretched, "That's all there is. Constantly! Chirp chirp chirp! Argh! It's driving me insane."

"Clearly." Athos agreed dryly. "I thought I heard you _just_ say it was paradise."

"That was two days ago! A woman can only take so much. Now... I'm bored. I miss Paris. The excitement, the noise. These birds... I'll shoot them, every last one of them!" She shifted forward and raised onto one knee, holding out her pistol, sighting up blindly into the trees with a squinted eye.

"Leave the birds alone and their..." Athos gave a musical whistle, near imitating the birds perfectly.

Hidden amongst the brush on the rocky outcropping at the side of the lake, lay Gallagher laying aim of his musket on the white-cloaked woman at the shore. The gunshot crack through the quiet wood harshly, and Aramis got her wish as the birds finally fell silent.

"Aramis!" Athos said sharply.

But Aramis was confused. "That wasn't me." Her eyes suddenly widened. "The Queen!"

The four Inseparable's all rushed down the slope, their pace hastened at the white-cloaked figure face down at the water's edge. Porthos arrived first and turned the body over, only to find the Queen's maid.

A gasp sounded from the tent and they all whipped around to find the Queen standing in the tent flap, hair still wet. "Caroline?" She swallowed. "She was cold, so I gave her my cloak."

"Get her under cover!" Athos screamed.

"Your Majesty!" Porthos ran and grabbed the woman, pressing her back against the incline. "Stay down." She shielded the smaller woman.

Gallagher silently cursed, and started to quickly reload as he discovered it wasn't the Queen he had killed.

"Stay with the Queen." Athos ordered Porthos and d'Artagnan from their shared shelter. "Get to the horses." She looked to Aramis beside her, "You and I have an assassin to catch."

Dirt rained down on Aramis' hat as Gallagher's next shot buried into the slop. "Now!" She and Athos scramble back up the bank, and had to run around to the cliff where their assassin was shooting from.

"d'Artagnan, how are we doin'?" Porthos asked.

d'Artagnan stuck his neck out to look, but instead of getting his head taken off as a sound target, it seemed like the shooter was making a run for it with Aramis and Athos coming on his tail. "Good to go, it look like he's making a run for it."

Despite that, they hustled. Taking the Queen, d'Artagnan climbed up the rocky slope first and reached down a hand for the woman, as Porthos boosted her from behind, before scrambling up after. And ushered the woman towards their tethered horses.

"One man on his own," Athos observed as they rushed through the brush. "Shouldn't be a problem."

They reached level ground and stopped short as down between rocky passage was a line held with not one man, but several on horseback.

"On the other hand..." Aramis disagreed.

"Shoot them!" Gallagher ordered.

The small gully briefly filled with the white spoke of spent gunpowder as several men raised their pistols and fired at the two Musketeers.

"That was unexpected." Aramis remarked as they backtracked. "There was at least two dozen of them."

"We'll lead them through the forest," Athos said. "Lose them in the trees." It would take a minute for a group of that size to move through the trees and find a path up to them.

Aramis nodded, and a couple minutes later, they found Porthos, d'Artagnan, Anne, and the horses.

"Did you find him?" d'Artagnan questioned.

Athos nodded. "Him. And about two dozen more."

"Two dozen?" Porthos sputtered in surprise.

She just nodded. "We leave. Now."

The two women quickly mounted, Aramis taking claim of the Queen, seating her in front. They road as fast as they were able through the forest, and it was a half-hour later that they took pause. d'Artagnan dismounted and found higher ground. He rose his eyeglass.

"Are they still following us?" Athos called.

"Yes, and they're not tiring."

"Determined," she remarked. If that already didn't show with the amount of men in company.

"What if we can't lose them?" Anne asked, still seated in front of Aramis. She was in but a simple, light blue gown, and the markswoman's borrowed travel cloak around her shoulders.

"We will." Aramis answered.

"What if we don't?" she insisted.

"We've been in much worse situations than this and always prevailed." She answered reasonably, her horse shifting beneath them restlessly. She chuckled, "You have nothing to fear—this is a relatively quiet day for us."

Anne wasn't sure if she was to be reassured by that or not, but the Spaniard's warm and strong presence pressed against her back help to alleviate her fears. Aramis had saved her on many occasion and they'd both come out unscathed.

"Time to go." d'Artagnan remarked, tucking the eyeglass into his belt. He quickly climbed down from his perch and mounted.

They continued to ride through the trees for a bit longer before they emerged on open ground and rode near the tree line. They rode there mounts at a fast canter for a while before d'Artagnan reined his horse in and turn back around on the hill. He stood in his stirrups, the eyeglass raised again. He searched carefully, but saw no signs of their pursuers at the moment. He rode back to the others under the cover of a copse of trees, where he dismounted.

"There's been no sign of them for an hour now." He reported.

"We're safe for a while." Athos nodded. "The Queen needs to rest. We'll make camp."

They lead their horses into the trees; deep enough for cover, but not too deep to be caught unawares. Athos and d'Artagnan saw to the horses, and Porthos to the fire. Aramis was on the hunt for food and found the perfect source in a nearby river. Stripping off her boots, breaches and frock, she stood knee-deep in the rushing water in her braies and open-collared shirt sleeves. She used to do this as a child all the time, it wasn't as difficult as it sounded; catching fish with her hands.

She already caught four and tossed a fifth onto the shore when the Queen made an tentative appearance.

"That's quite a skill. Can I help?" Anne gave a nervous chuckle and shook her head. "I mean, not catching fish, of course, but anything else to help."

Aramis gave a gentle smile. "Rest while you can, Your Majesty. We'll be riding again soon."

"No, I'd like to be useful. Really." She insisted.

Aramis paused in thought. "Well, in that case... can you gut a fish?" she gestured from the water to the edge where their meal lay still flopping. The Queen followed the gestured and grimaced at the flopping creatures before looking back at the Musketeer with a deadpan expression. Aramis couldn't stop the chuckle. "Just checking." Anne started closer towards the edge of the river. "Careful."

"Is there nothing I can do?" she asked, and stumbled.

Aramis' body reacted automatically, despite the distance between them, jerking towards her. Anne easily straightened, unharmed, whilst Aramis stepped a loose rock underwater and lost her own balance. She plummeted down under the rushing water with a yelp.

"Aramis!" she cried, horrified.

And instant later, Aramis burst up from the water, flailing. Completely soaked, and gasping, Anne couldn't help but look at the woman admiringly as her shirtsleeves clung see-through to her like a second skin. She had always felt an attraction to the woman since their first true encounter in the Chatelet yard on Good Friday when there had been the prisoner escape. And ever since, she delighted in every sighting, conversation, and touch. She knew she shouldn't; she was the Queen, she was married to the King—but she couldn't stop this secret pleasure.

Aramis met her gaze and it mirrored hers.

"Aramis," d'Artagnan called, coming from their camp. They quickly tore their gazes. "Porthos says she'd starving and wants to know what the hold up is." His eyes widened as he saw the soaking wet Aramis standing in the river, gasping. "What happened?" her purposefully kept his eyes trained on her face.

Her eyes flickered to the Queen for an instant. "I slipped on a loose rock." She came to the shore's edge. "Give me a hand." She held out her hand.

Without thought, he clasped her wet hand, shifting his footing and pulling. "Aramis!" he squawked in alarm as a flapping and flipping fish came under his heel. Her eyes widened and there was nothing she could do as she was halfway out and he was coming towards her. The Queen let out a second cry of alarm as the two Musketeers went into the water.

d'Artaganan coughed as he broke the surface and clung to Aramis for a moment without thought as he regained his bearings. Then, realising exactly the condition of his friend, jumped back, nearly ploughing into the water fully once more. His cheeks turned ruddy with embarrassment, but Aramis looked completely amused.

This time, they climbed from the river onto the bank with incident.

His embarrassment gone, he shivered. Looking all the world for a drowned rat, d'Artagnan glowered at the Spaniard. "Why would you do that?"

Aramis looked at him in surprise. "Me? What did I do?" the Gascon simply gestured at himself, soaked, in answer. "Hmm." She wasn't impressed at his answer.

"Oh!" Anne gasped pleasantly and they looked at her. "I think that I shall try for cooking—that'll help, I'm sure." She smiled beautifully at them before she turned and headed back to camp.

They looked after the Queen. "Why do I have a bad feeling about this?" he wondered.

Aramis just patted him in commiseration on the back. "Let's get these fish back to camp." They gathered the fish, but not before the whacked each sharply against a nearby rock, killing it.

"What happened to you two?" Athos wondered as the pair returned.

"I don't know what you were tryin' to do, but..." Porthos laughed when she saw them. "I don't think that's 'ow you do it!"

"I don't want to talk about it." d'Artagnan said.

Porthos and Athos took pity on them and while d'Artagnan stripped and hung his clothes to dry, leaving his in outfit similar to Aramis, they cleaned and gutted the fish.

Her mind set on the matter, the Inseparables had no other choice than to oblige their Queen, even if the end results ailed them to do it.

Their dread filled and expanded as each fish turned to blackened crisp. This was a different kind of torture—talk of cruel and unusual. They each took a fish with obliging smile and ate in the same manner. Who were they but servants to tell the Queen how to cook?

"Mmm." Aramis hummed pleasantly from where she sat next to the Queen. "Delicious, Your Majesty." And d'Artagnan was one again shown what a fantastic liar the Spaniard Musketeer could be—also, he was sure that her fish was more singed around that edges than their's scorched to the point of bone-turned-ash.

Anne lit up at the compliment and looked around the fire at the others for their thoughts.

"Hmm." Porthos nodded, both glad and not that her mouth was congested with the barely recognizable fish and she was prevented from saying anything.

"Mm-hmm!" d'Artagnan made a strangled content noise in the back of his throat, giving the Queen a thumbs up. His lips sealed against his roiling internals. It wouldn't do to insult the Queen to evacuate his stomach in front of her on compliments to the chef.

Athos could only grunt softly in her own response while trying not to choke on the chunk of ash lodged in her throat. She had to nearly half her canteen before she could wash it down, and paused in complete concentration as her stomach briefly rebelled against the contents—which had turned iron against years of excessive drink.

"It's the first time I've ever cooked." Anne admitted with a blush that Aramis thought cute, well worth the contents in her mouth.

Athos cleared her throat. "That's hard to believe." She lied and wondered why all of Anne's attentions were seemingly placed on her.

"Would you like another?" she held the remaining crisp of a fish towards the de facto leader.

Athos' eyes widened for an instant under the question before she schooled her features. "Thank you, but I'm fine."

With the Queen's attentions on Athos, d'Artagnan quickly dumped the contents of his plate behind back, so when Anne turned the offer to him and Porthos, they claimed full stomachs.

"Shhh!" Athos suddenly hissed, standing up straight. They instantly quieted and sat at attention. And that was when they heard it, the pounding of many horses hooves. "d'Artagnan." She nodded to Anne.

d'Artagnan leapt up. "Your Majesty." He took the woman's hand and helped her down the short incline towards their horses. He lifted her onto Aramis' horse and quickly dressed in his still-damp clothing.

"I'm tired of running away!" Porthos growled, a hand on Athos' chest preventing the woman from passing.

"Perhaps we should be the ones doing the chasing." Aramis agreed, joining them as she finished tying of her light blue sash and started to buckle her many belts around her torso.

"The Queen's safety is paramount." Athos denied them, even as much as she might wish upon that plan of action. She didn't like to be chased. "We can't risk it by making a stand."

Pothos shook her head. "Nor can we outride them forever."

"When we can't, then we fight." Was Athos' answer and that was final. They all mounted and rode off, abandoning their camp. They had lingered long enough.

They rode from the cover of trees at a gallop, trying to put as much distance between their two parties in the shortest amount of time, running on the open ground. While they had been idle, Gallagher had not.

"Look!" d'Artagnan pointed as they crested the rise and Athos allowed them to halt. Amongst the trees, on the hill, the tall walls of a convent peeked.

Athos looked at it and made her decision. She looked across Aramis and Anne to Porthos and d'Artagnan. "You two ride to Paris and get reinforcements. We'll hold up in there till you return."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Porthos stopped the woman. "What, just you two? Alone?"

"Thank you for the vote of confidence." Aramis muttered sarcastically.

"We won't be back before tomorrow at the earliest." d'Artagnan put in his own protestations. "There's at least two dozen of them, how can you truly expect to hold their attack?"

"We'll improvise," Aramis joked in reassurance. "Don't you know I'm a luminary in such things?"

"In the case that that does not work," Athos drawled. "You best hurry."

With a flashing of looks the Inseparable's shared their desire for the others not to get themselves killed, and then Porthos and d'Artagnan wheeled their mounts in the opposite direction of the convent and dug in their heels, speeding off to Paris as Athos, Aramis, and Anne made the wood and found the trail to the convent.

Gallagher crested the hill and he ordered his men to halt in-line. As they had been coming up, he'd seen his targets spit up. After a moment's thought, he sent four of his men after the two riders headed to Paris, and ordered the rest of his men to wait as he took a second and headed towards the convent.

Aramis and Athos rode through the open gates, and paused briefly in the small square. Athos dismounted, and helped Anne down, and Aramis rode on through the arch, Athos' horse following as she went in search of stables and Mother Superior. Athos turned to the gates and had already pushed on of the large doors shut before a man running out of the arch Aramis had disappeared into, and physically blocked Athos from closing the second.

"These gates are never closed." Father Isaac declared.

"This is an emergency." Athos insisted.

"Everyone is welcome here at any time of night or day."

"We're King's Musketeers." Athos said as if that solved the problem, and it should have, but the priest was stubborn.

"I answer to a higher power."

There was not time for this! "This is your Queen." Athos gestured towards the woman, who currently, though beautiful and regal, could be any woman. "It is your duty to protect her." She didn't want to harm a man of the cloth, but she could if forced.

Mother Superior rushed out, several other nuns on her heels. "Close the gates, Father!"

After a briefest of hesitations, the man stepped aside and allowed Athos to close the gate. She battened the crossbar firmly and pointedly. Aramis had found higher ground on the wall, and spotted Gallagher and a second riding up the path through her eyeglass.

"Athos!" she called, stepping from the edge and looking into the square.

Father Isaac looked up with concealed statement at a voice he would long recognize, no matter the years parted. He walked with the other nuns as Mother Superior lead the Queen into the building.

Athos stood next to Aramis and watched their assassins' approach, the second waving a white handkerchief tied to the tip of his short sword.

"That is unexpected," Aramis announced. "Do we talk, or shoot?"

"Hmm." Her eyes narrowed in thought.

Moments later she rode through the convent gate, which was promptly closed behind her, and approached Gallagher and his man. Aramis, still upon the roof, musket loaded, ready to shoot either man were they to make any move amiss.

"If you've come to surrender, I accept." Athos opened the conversation.

"I heard a sense of humour can be a comfort when facing death." Gallagher replied. He didn't seem to be surprised or insulted that she was a woman.

"Then what do you want?" she wondered.

"To offer freedom—hand over the Queen, and I'll let everyone else live." He made his offer; fair, all things considered.

"Or you could leave now and I won't kill you." She countered.

He exhaled deeply and pulled out his pistol. Athos quickly grabbed for hers and Aramis levelled her musket on the man—so it was an unexpected turn when the man turned his weapon on his _own_ man and fired.

"He had a chance to kill you and he wasted it." Gallagher explained. There was a beautiful and almost musical quality to his voice that made Athos able to listen to it for hours on end and not tire of it, despite the word content. "If that's how I deal with my own men, imagine what I'll do with you. And in case you think there's anyone coming for you, there isn't. My men will see to it your two friends don't make it to Paris."

Athos wasn't worried for Porthos and d'Artagnan. They could take care of themselves, and she knew that they would make it to Paris to get reinforcements. They just had to hold off until then. "Why are you doing this?"

"It's what I'm good at."

Athos narrowed her eyes. "This is not how a soldier behalves. A white flag. Officer's boots. Your men holding line..."

"Whatever I once was..." he replied quietly. "I'm not a soldier now."

"You may not have the uniform, but once a soldier..." She didn't need to say the rest. "And soldiers don't kill women." She added with a false hope, not for herself, but her charge.

"Just the one." He denied her. "And _you_ , if you get in my way."

"You've made an error in judgement." She ignored the omission. "I understand. You can ride away and still have your honour."

"I've given my word. I cannot break it—without that, I have nothing."

"You have your life." She persisted. "Stay here and I _will_ kill you."

"One of us will die," he nodded in agreement. "That's for certain. The nuns are free to leave without fear of harm, but anyone who chooses to remain in the convent will be killed—women or no." And with that, he clicked his tongue and put in his heels and turned his horse around, leaving his dead companion behind.

"Well, that was..." Aramis said when Athos returned.

"Yeah." She agreed. Porthos and d'Artagnan had better hurry their pace.

* * *

d'Artagnan's stomach rolled mutinously as he and Porthos awaited behind cover on either side of the road for Gallagher's men to catch up. It wouldn't due to be chased all the way to Paris.

He gave a quiet groan. "Ugh. It feels as if my stomach is going to split; I ate so much of that fish."

"Liar." Porthos declared him. "I saw you dump your plate behind your back!"

"You just jealous _you_ didn't think of it."

"Hmm." She was that, but was also not likely to admit it to the man. "The things I 'ad no choice but to eat to survive in the Court of Miracles some days... an' that fish has rocked my iron stomach something' fierce. If these bastards don't 'urry their pace, they might as well catch us with our pants down!"

d'Artagnan had time enough to snort in both amusement and agreement, before the sound of approaching hoof beats put their conversation to a halt. Each shared a nod and readied their pistol. The pounding of hooves drew closer until four men, paired in twos, thundered passed them on the road.

When he and Porthos had split from the others, it had been in plan view. There hope was to split their assassin's men in half. The pair felt insulted that only four men were sent their way. But they just simply wished it had been more so the adversaries that Athos and Aramis faced were less. It didn't feel right to leave them in such dire straights, but they had a job to do.

They thrust out of their hiding places, levelled their pistols and fired. The horses whinnied at the sudden concussion, and the back two rides fell from their horses—dead. The two front riders calmed their mounts down and reined them around, their own pistols levelled as the two Musketeers rushed to reload. Adrenaline pounded through d'Artagnan's veins as they fired, and he could swear he felt the balls whip through his hair—the gallop of the horses throwing of their aim. He didn't feel the burning in his upper left arm facing away from the woman.

"Ain't this better than tryin' to escape?" Porthos grinned as she worked. She always loved the added pressure of a countdown—it made it all that more exciting when she executed.

"Ask me that again in two minutes if we're still alive." He said, squeezing powder into the muzzle from his horn.

She finished loading her pistol, a fast practice made by being in a situation like this more times than she should be. She levelled her pistol, aimed at her rider as he drew closer and fired, killing the man. He toppled from his saddle to the ground.

She looked over next to her, to see d'Artagnan just now using his ramrod. "d'Artagnan!" she urged. His man was eating up the distance, drawing his rapier and raising it over head, ready to strike the Gascon down.

"I got it!" he barked, jerking his ramrod from the barrel and raising the pistol. There was no time to aim, indeed, no need, for his target was not even five feet from him. The gunshot hit the man in the chest, and before he could fall naturally out of the saddle in death, the horse reared and throw its rider from back.

Porthos grabbed the Gascon, jerking him from the path of striking hooves just in time. They watched from tangled limbs on the ground as the horse's hooves landed harmlessly on the road and then the animal broke away.

"That was close." She said.

"You're telling me." He climbed to his feet and held out his hand. "Thanks." He pulled her to her feet.

"What are sisters for?" she clapped him on the shoulder, smiling. He hissed at the contact on his left shoulder and she frowned at him. And that's when she noticed the blood on her fingers. "You're shot?!" she exclaimed.

"I am?" he asked in surprise and looked down at his arm in surprise. "I didn't feel it."

"You will in a second." She assured him, and took his arm, inspecting the wound through the tear in sleeve. "Looks like a graze, thankfully." She let out a relieved breath as she went to her horse and came back with her water canteen. He gritted his teeth as she poured water on it and wiped away the blood. "It doesn't look like it needs sewin', there's not that much blood." Taking the braided bandana from her head, she used that to wrap and bind the wound.

"Thanks." He said again.

She grinned. "What are sisters f—"

"Please don't?" he grimaced at her oncoming hand, she winked and her hand descended onto his right shoulder lightly, giving it a squeeze.

Time for idle conversation over, they searched the bodies of their pursuers, hoping to find a clue about who they were and who their patron might be. All four bodies had a identical tattoo on the inside of their wrist's of a flat-palmed hand.

"What's it mean?" he wondered.

Porthos shook her head as she searched the last man's pockets. "Nothin' I've seen before." She pulled out a folded piece of paper.

"And that?"

"A promissory note." She read through it. "To be cashed at a moneylender's in the Rue de Bonnasse..." she looked up and met his eye, "In Paris."

* * *

When Athos and Aramis entered the chapel from their meeting with Gallagher, the pews were filled with nun, youngs and old, Father Isaac amongst them, as Mother Superior and Queen Anne stood front.

"I urge you to leave now." Athos called. "If you leave, you will not be harmed."

"We could take the Queen with us," Mother superior suggest. "Disguised as a sister.

Athos had already thought of such a scheme, but wasn't willing to risk it. The risk-reward rations were too equal in footing. "If she'd recognized outside, we can't protect her." Even though her and Aramis could dress as nuns themselves, Gallagher would inspect them first and definitely recognize Athos. "The Queen stays with us."

Mother Superior nodded and addressed the other nuns, giving her permission for any to leave if they so wished, but all declined. Athos figured there was no fighting it and had other things to focus on. They needed to barricade the gate, for which Mother Superior offered the tables from the refectory—and a group of nuns and the Queen, volunteered for the task. Next was two established lookout points, each with a clear sight to anyone approaching. After a moments thought, Mother Superior offered her own bedroom and the sacristy.

"You don't happen to have any weapons here?" Athos asked, not expecting much.

"One musket and some charges." The older woman answered, much to the Musketeer's surprise. Athos raised her brow. "For shooting rabbits..."

"Oh." She nodded.

"... And Protestants." She finished and that elicited a smile from Athos. Though older, Mother Superior was sharp-witted and sharp-tongued. She had a sense of humour that the seasoned Musketeer found agreeable.

In the wood surrounding the convent, men flooded the trees like animals flushed from hiding by hunting hounds.

"There is something else we could use, Mother Superior." Isaac spoke up, drawing attention to himself. "In the cellar. I can show Re—Aramis."

Aramis' brows raised at her name dropped, sure that it hadn't been said since they had arrived, but her curiosity overtook any apprehension, and she leaned her musket against the wall of the chapel before she followed the Priest down the stairs and into a room in the expansive tunnels of the cellar under the convent. She spotted a distillery and the surrounding shelves were filled with bottled liquor.

"You sell this?" she asked, removing her gloves and tucking them into her belt.

Isaac took a flat-based wide basket laid with straw over to the one of the shelves, using a large barrel as a table. "Saving souls isn't cheap."

Aramis approached the distillery. "My father had a still just like this one." She knocked on the barrel and gave a fond smile on the past. "He made grape and honey brandy all the time." She remembered when she used to sneak in to steal a taste. "May I?"

"Mm-hmm."

Aramis took the cupped ladle from the table and held it under the tap, turning the tab. She inhaled the contents before drinking the sip, her eyes falling closed. Isaac watched her closely before turning back to the task of filling the basket when her eyes opened in shocked confusion.

"It's exactly like my father's!"

"Probably because I use his recipe." He murmured. He looked over his shoulder at her. "You don't recognize me, do you?" he seemed more amused than offended. "I did you, right away, even with your uniform.

"I would like to think that I would remembering sleeping with a man of the cloth." Aramis joked wryly to cover how off-footed she felt.

He chuckled and turned to her. "I wasn't a priest back then—perhaps that's what throwing you?"

Aramis looked at him intently, her brows furrowed, and ignored the collar. He had short brown hair and eyes the colour of caramel, with a single dimple in his cheek and his quirked lips.

Aramis dropped the ladle and approached, reaching out. "I—?" but before she could make contact, her arm dropped and she stepped back in quiet shock. Her eyes widened as she felt a sudden, sharp emptiness in her abdomen. "Isaac?" her hand instinctively went to her stomach. Even now, she unconsciously wore several layers over her middle—her blue sash, and thick leather belts—as if trying to protect something that wasn't there any more... had only been there for too short a time. "Is that really you?" She forced herself to grip her belt instead, trying to wrap around seeing this boy, now a man, again.

"So, you do remember." He said gently, and then turned back to the shelf. "I thought you could light the bottles with cloth and throw them. It'll be gruesome, but effective."

Aramis exhaled sharply as she stared at the back of the man, as if they had not just rediscovered each other. "I don't—What are you doing here?"

"Well, this is a convent—I stop in from time to time and see how the nuns are fairing."

She stepped forward, "That's not what I mean."

Isaac finally faced her again—

"Aramis, Athos needs you." Anne entered the room and paused at the intensity filling the air between Musketeer and Priest.

Hand to her mouth, still trying to fully comprehend, Aramis jerked around to Anne, dazed. She felt a pang inside her that she hadn't felt since she held Agnes' Henry cradled to her breast.

"Aramis?" she asked in worry.

"I—I should go." The Spaniard said, and rushed passed the Queen. She retrieved her musket from the chapel as she came through and went through the arch on the left side to Mother Superior's rooms, with was divided into two parts. The bed, which was sectioned off with the door, and a room with the window that was to be her vantage point on the enemy.

Athos gazed out the window, Aramis' musket leaning against the wall. "You stay in here. I'll take the sacristy." She turned to find the other woman quiet and checking Mother Superior's musket's charge distractedly. "Do say if you're not happy."

Aramis tried to shake her distractions away, but in was hard won. "No, no. I'm happy." She walked to the window, that was like a deep rectangle alcove. She handed Athos the convent musket and retrieved her own from against the wall. "Or as happy as any woman might in our predicament."

"If it's any consolation," Athos replied, "Mother Superior is next door, praying for our immortal souls."

"Right now, it's my mortal body I'm worried about."

Athos smiled and left to take up her own station across the chapel and in the sacristy.

Aramis raised the short bench against the wall of the alcove, on end to the side in front of the window as both cover and perch, and knocked out two windowpanes with the muzzle of her musket to get a unobstructed line-of-sight.

* * *

"Captain!" d'Artagnan shouted.

When he and Porthos rode into the garrison, the clop of their horses was loud in the empty yard, absent of practicing Musketeers. They quickly reined in and dismounted, Jacques the stable boy coming and taking their horses away.

"Where is everybody?" Porthos demanded of Serge as the cook hobbled passed them to the table.

"The regiment's gone off hunting with the King."

"What?" d'Artagnan cursed their bad luck.

"No one else here but me, One-Eyed Florian," Serge nodded to the man sitting at the table, peeling spuds. "And Jacques the stable boy."

"And the Captain?"

Treville came from his office and stood at the railing, looking down at them in confusion. "Where are the others?" the looks the pair sent up his way were despairing, and the man's gut dropped. "Where is the Queen?" he demanded.

Porthos groaned as he came rushing down the stairs. She had been dreading this part the entire gallop to Paris. "We were attacked at the lake, but luckily, they killed 'er handmaid by mistake and we were able to make our escape."

"What?" he gasped, already shouting at Jacques for their horses.

"There were 'bout two dozen men." Porthos continued her report. "They chased us for a better part of the morning." Jacques came out with their horses saddled.

"What of the Queen?" Treville put his foot in the stirrup of his horse and with his one arm, pulled himself up into the saddle. His arm was in a sling, his collarbone still healing from his encounter with Labarge. "Athos and Aramis? Where are they?"

"Last we saw the Queen was when Athos and Aramis took her to the safety of a convent we came across," d'Artagnan answered from his horse. "What of the Musketeers?"

"The King decided to go hunting with the Mellendorfs!" Treville cursed, digging his heals into his horse. Louis had taken a grand liking to the Count and especially his young and sociable daughter Charlotte. He wanted to impress her and rather enthusiastic of her liking of hunting, decided to make a trip of it. This couldn't have come at a worse time—but how could they have predicted this sudden assassination attempt. "The whole regiment's gone with him." They made for Louvre.

* * *

The Cardinal had been on his knees in prayer since he saw the King and Mellendorfs off and sent Milady on her task. Better to ask forgiveness than permission, and he only granted such omissions of God, not man. Though the only sound was the clicking of her heels on the stone floor, and the whiff of jasmine, he knew it could only be her. She didn't say a word, but she wouldn't have been there if she hadn't completed what she had set out to do.

"It is done." Richelieu breathed and though he already knew there was no turning back, it seemed to settle completely with him only now. She made no response and he kept on his knees, hands clasped and eyes closed. "Don't tell me you have qualms," he scoffed. "because in your line of work—conscience is no asset."

"Trust me, I feel no misgivings on this matter." Milady responded finally. "But this is one death sentenced that is far from ordinary."

"I am completely aware." He said dryly.

The outside door opened and Milady quickly hid herself from sight as Treville, Porthos, and d'Artagnan entered.

Treville didn't waste time. "There's been an attempt on the Queen's life—but she's safe, at least for the time being."

It was a good thing that the Cardinal's back was to the three soldiers, otherwise he might have betrayed his own scheme. Though why they would think him guilty of this _attempt_ , was a matter beyond him. He quickly concealed the anger at Milady's folly and plastered on the shock as he climbed to his feet and turned, his knees aching.

"I've sent word to inform the King of the situation." Treville continued. "I'll have my Musketeers return here to Paris immediately."

"But that would take about six, maybe seven hours." He prayed by then that it would be too late. "Can your men hold the convent long enough for rescue to arrive?"

"As long as Athos and Aramis draw breath, they will do their duty."

"I'm sure." The Cardinal replied. Treville's Inseparables were his worst pain. They were like cockroaches. "These assassins, do we know anything about them?"

"Mercenaries." Porthos spoke up. "This promissory note was found on one of them." She took it from inside her doublet.

"Whoever hired them is in Paris." d'Artagnan added. He could smell a slight perfume in the air, but took it to be incense.

His expression tightened. "May I see that?" he took the note from the woman and read it. "When you find the person behind this, I will ensure that their punishment is exemplary." He handed it back.

Treville nodded and they rushed out.

Richelieu seethed in anger. "You assured me your man Gallagher could do this. Instead, I find the Queen is still alive!"

Milady swallowed. "He will finish what he had begun, or die trying."

"Die trying?" he repeated. "Is that what I am paying for?" he came around the dividing wall towards her, his approach slow and intent. "Will he also steal back the promissory note he so carelessly mislaid? Well?!" he demanded, pressing her back against the wall with fear, not even placing a touch upon her.

Her voice trembled as she spoke, "I will see to it."

"I hope so, because if this goes wrong..." he grabbed her face harshly with his hand, pressing. She could feel the cold of his rings against her flesh and whimpered, her green eyes wide. "You will pay the price." He released her face slowly before turning and leaving.

She breathed heavily. She needed to hurry if she was going to beat the Musketeers to the moneylender's.

* * *

Aramis was lost in confused feelings of the past as she stood her perch. She needed to focus, it was only a matter of time before Gallagher set on the attack, but the memories and emotion she thought lost or buried were resurfacing in a dizzying fashion.

"Here." Anne murmured, coming next to the Musketeer who was just able to stifle the gasp. The Queen held out powder cartridges in her hand. She had all but commanded Athos to allow her assistance and the Lieutenant gave her the task of delivering the ammo.

"Thank you." And she touched the holder on her belt that she had rigged herself.

The Queen nodded and opened the flap, filling the empty slots. "The Priest you were with downstairs..." Anne said quietly. "I'm sorry my arrival was a disturbance."

"You did not disturb anything." She denied.

Anne chuckled and Aramis looked at her. "I may be cosseted, but I am not a fool."

"That you are not," she whispered, and then paused, looking at the woman with searching eyes. "I knew him once—before. We were to marry."

"And you changed your mind?"

Aramis' gaze flickered away for a moment and she swallowed the lump in her throat, about to divulge something from her past that not even the Inseparables, her closest constants in life, knew. "I fell pregnant and the marriage was arranged. But I was happy. I was in love, and so was he. But... then I lost the baby, and he just disappeared. I never saw him again—not until today."

"Oh, Aramis." She said softly and without thought, just instinct, cupped the woman's cheek. There was sympathy, not pity or judgement, but understanding.

"I think they're about to—" Athos rushed in, and the first shot of this fight was fired. A pane in the window shattered, and Aramis felt the sting of the shards bite into her cheek as she had turned her face towards Athos. She quickly shielded the Queen as more shots were fired and rushed her form the window and towards Athos. "Attack." She finished needlessly. "Come with me to the chapel." She quickly took Anne from Aramis and left her in the chapel with the other nuns as she went to her post in the sacristy.

With the Queen safe from sight, and Aramis hoping that Athos didn't see what she might have seen and interpret it the wrong way, she went back to her perch and sighted down at the men swarming the base of the window like ants. She fired and killed the man. Her next shot from pistol, took out the man in a tree close to the wall, thinking he could climb in a window or even over.

She left the exposure of the window to reload, and called through the doorway to the other side of the chapel where Athos was doing the same. "My parents always wanted me to end up in a place like this." It was a fact that she had told d'Artagnan their first day of meeting and was surprised that she'd never told Athos as much.

"They wanted you to become a nun?" Athos laughed.

"Is it really all that funny?"

"Have you ever met yourself?" done loading, Athos snuck back to her window, that unlike Aramis' was latched and opened outward. She raised her hand and gave it a quick wave before dropping it from view as a shot sounded. She jumped up onto the small bench under the window and with the musket, killed the same man attempting to reload. She stepped back to the doorway. "So why didn't you?"

Aramis grinned. "'Cause I found I was better at dispatching people to Hell!" She went to the window and promptly killed another man.

The Sisters prayed, shots breaking through the chapel windows as the mercenaries fired a volley. When the statue next to Mother Superior exploded, she had had enough.

"Mother of God!" Mother Superior screamed. "Isaac! Come with me!" And her, Isaac, and a couple other nuns grabbed the basket of bottled liquor and went out onto the wall with a torch.

The bodies seemed to be piling up on Gallagher's side. They had taken out at least eleven of his men. Athos even had a shot at the man himself. Their eyes met across the distance and they fired at each other at the same moment, both missing. Finally deeming he needed a different strategy, Gallagher gave a whistle and signalled for his men to retreat.

* * *

Treville, d'Artagnan, and Porthos dismounted in Rue Bannones outside of the moneylender's apartments from the promissory note Porthos found on one of the assassins.

"Hello?" Treville called, pushing open the unlocked door when there was no answer to their summons. They entered his office. "Not like a moneylender to leave his room unattended."

"Perhaps he's the trusting type?" d'Artagnan suggested.

"Too trustin'," Porthos said and both men turned to see the woman close the office door and reveal a fat, dead man hanging off the hook from the back of the door. "They must 'ave not wanted 'im to talk." She pushed the door back, hiding the poor sod from view.

"We need to find some record of the promissory note." Treville said, turning from the door and to the man's desk.

d'Artagnan's body reacted before he even knew why, before his nose could register the lingering scent. "Can either of you smell jasmine?" Porthos gave him an odd look.

"Look for his account ledger." Treville commanded. "There's not time to waste."

d'Artagnan took a deep draw on the air. He was sure he could smell it. Slowly, he walked from the office and down the hall. He paused in the doorway to another room, completely unaware of exactly how much danger he was in.

Behind the open door, a mere inch of wood separating them, stood Milady. Her breath held, dagger gripped in her hand, ready to strike if forced. Their knock had alerted her just in time and she was able to hide, just as they entered. She could easily have him if taken by surprise, but would she have the chance to escape or would Treville and Porthos be on her too fast?

"I found it." Treville shoved the contents of the desk aside with his right arm, and thumped the heavy book into the cleared space. "d'Artagnan! Porthos!"

d'Artagnan hesitated, shifting on his feet, an urge to delve deeper into the room. He could swear the scent was stronger here. The scent was pulling at him, prickling his brain. He knew it from somewhere, but why could he not think of it?

"d'Artagnan!" Treville barked and with a discontent sigh, the Gascon turned from the room and what would have been his death, and returned to the office. "This is his ledger." Treville flipped through the pages to the latest entries. "The entry for the note says it was purchased in gold by the German Count Daniel Mellendorf. Mellendorf and his daughter are hunting with the King. The beneficiary of the note didn't sign his name, but he left a mark." He tapped the page and the stamp left, a hand.

d'Artagnan stepped to his side. "We've seen that before."

"Tattooed on the 'and of the assassins." Porthos said on Treville's other side.

"It's the mark of Hugh O'Neill, a Catholic who was exiled from Ireland, and had his hand taken. Men bearing this brand were O'Neill's private guard."

Their attention distracted, Milady attempted to make her escape unnoticed.

"Soldiers?" d'Artagnan asked.

"More than just soldiers." Treville thought. "More like Musketeers."

"We need to get back to the convent as soon as possible." Porthos insisted, Athos and Aramis' situation was all that more worse off if they were fighting men that were trained and not just thugs.

"We can't wait for the regiment." Treville agreed.

Flickering movement caught d'Artagnan's eye and he turned to see the small mirror on the side table reflected another person, one down the hall instead of in the office. That jasmine he had smelt—he knew it! He waved his arm to silently draw Porthos' attention before he drew his pistol and ran after the killer, the tall woman on his heels, more confused than in a hurry. Treville struggled for a moment as he attempted to tear the page from book one-handed.

d'Artagnan came out of the apartments to their tethered horses and searched, but they were alone once more.

"What is it?" Porthos stepped out.

"Someone was there." He said. "I smelled her scent. Jasmine."

"'Er?" she asked.

"It was a woman." He said. "I'm sure of it."

"I didn't see anyone."

"She was there." He insisted.

Treville joined them. "We don't have time to search for her now." He mounted. "The Queen's life is at stake!"

d'Artagnan growled in frustration, but mounted. Right now, Athos, Aramis, and the Queen were the priority, not the killer of the moneylender. But he wasn't bound to forget, and once he got a moment, he was going to think on the scent of jasmine and remember. He was damned if he didn't.

* * *

Treville had sent Porthos and d'Artagnan back to the garrison to enact his plan, while he went back to the palace and reported his findings to the Cardinal.

"According to the ledger, the mercenaries were hired by Count Mellendorf." Treville shook his head. "It makes no sense."

"Mellendorf is here seeking a husband for his daughter." Richelieu filled in his own blanks. It was his fallback plan if something like this ever went amiss. "If the Queen were out of the way, the King would be free to marry again."

"Murdering the Queen?" he scoffed. "Isn't that a bit extreme?"

"He's a very ambitious man."

Treville mounted his horse and the Cardinal turned to leave. "They moneylender's assassin was a woman."

Richelieu paused and slowly turned. "A woman?"

"d'Artagnan saw a glimpse of her." He nodded. "Send the regiment after us, the moment they return."

"Of course." As soon as Treville left, Richelieu turned on heel and stormed back into his office, furious.

"You were seen." He snapped. "Yet again, you were careless!"

"He said a woman. Paris is filled with women!" Milady protested. "The promissory note is dealt with. They believe Mellendorf is behind all of this. It cannot be traced back to you, I swear."

"You better pray that holds true." He growled. "Mellendorf's rooms are in the East Wing of the Hunting Lodge. I believe _this_ belongs to him." He said pointedly and held out a broken-sealed letter.

She took it with relief and a nod, rushing to do just that. That had been too close a call at the moneylender's. She felt like she was running on borrowed-time of her borrowed-time and it was a feeling that she hated.

* * *

There was pause in the firing as Gallagher had called his men back to him, and now, in the quiet, was giving them their new orders.

Aramis stood leaning against the wall by the window, gazing out it, a steaming cup in her hand when Isaac came into the room with the basket of whisky.

"It is very quiet. Perhaps prayer has driven them away." He said.

"More likely, they're devising a plan of attack. One that won't cost them so many men." She replied, though her face was still turned to the window, her gaze was cut across the man.

"Well, these will help keep them at bay." He placed the few remaining bottles, their necks stuffed with cloth, on the side table.

Aramis pushed from the wall and approached the man's turned back, just as men ran from the trees and to the convent wall.

"When you left, I tried to find you. But you just disappeared! I searched and searched until my father grew sick of it and sent me away. I had to stop after that."

He turned to her and gave her a gentle smile. "I didn't want to be found..."

"I don't understand." She shook her head, the cup thunking on the table and an old pain glowed in her brown eyes. "What we had together... We loved each other. We—"

"That wasn't love, René." Isaac said, calling her by her given name; one she shed like Athos when she joined the Musketeers. "After what happened with the baby... that tragedy helped me realize my true calling to God. We were just kids, we weren't meant to be parents. It's helped you find yourself as well. This, right now, is who you were meant to be—a Musketeer. You help people, you serve France—just as I do."

"You left me." Aramis mumbled. It wasn't the first time she'd said that to someone. It seemed to happen to everyone that she grew an attachment to. Adele, Marsac, Isaac... _who would be next_? she wondered.

"No." He shook his head. "If I had stayed, it would have ruined both our lives." It wasn't said unkindly. "You would have clung to the idea of us and it would have suffocated you. You aren't meant to settle down, Aramis. That was clear, even then. You wouldn't have been happy."

"With you, I would have." She insisted.

"No." He paced away, closing his eyes briefly. "My leaving was the right thing to do. Look at us now. We've both found our true vocation. Mine to God, and yours to the sword. We would have made each other miserable. Believe me. I acted out of kindness." And he grabbed the basket and left, leaving Aramis to stare after him with a pain etched into her abdomen.

In the cellar, two men broke through the weak brick in the wall and drop through into Isaac's distillery.

"Someone's coming." The bald man hissed, and the two hid as Isaac came down with the empty basket and started to fill it with bottles when he was grabbed from behind, a hand over his mouth and arm around his throat.

Aramis paced, her attention split between the window and Isaac's leave. How harsh could a man be, to say he was doing her a _kindness_ by vanishing? She gritted her teeth, Priest for not, she would have a piece of him. She wondered when he had gotten so condescending. He was treating her like some slow child. Like she was that sixteen-year-old and not a grown woman.

Being with Isaac, it made her feel like that again. Not the young-anything-is possible sixteen-year-old, the emotionally-tragic sixteen-year-old who had fallen in love, had sex for the first time and then fell pregnant. The sixteen-year-old who was to married, only to lose the baby. Who's first-love had disappeared and who's father had sent her away to a convent that wasn't very dissimilar to this one, and put her on the path to God. But before she had taken her pledge, she'd found her calling in something else—realized how good a shot she was, how good with her hands—and how much she loved to touch and be touched.

So, perhaps he was correct in that, but that didn't mean he was right to do what he had, and how he went about it. Determined, she headed for the cellar, hooking her pistol into her belt.

"Where are the Musketeers?" the long-haired man hissed with sour breath in the Father's face, and put a knife to his cheek. "Speak, or you will never utter another word."

"Isaac?" Aramis called.

The bald man clamped a hand around his mouth before he could call a warning out to the woman, and a punch to the gut put a brief halt on his struggles. The long-haired man turned from him and raised his pistol towards the door. As soon as Aramis stepped into the room, unsuspecting, she would be dead. That was not something he could allow for. Isaac manages to get his hand free and grabbed the knife at the bald man's hip. He drove it into the man's thigh, and as he released the Priest with the cry of injury, Isaac spun and stabbed the man over and over again in a frenzy.

"Aramis!" he screamed warning, and the long-haired man spun around as Issaz stood from his first kill and fired.

"Isaac!" Aramis screamed, firing from the doorway and killing the long-haired man. "Isaac." She ran to the fallen Priest.

She pressed her hands to the suffering wound off the left his abdomen and he groaned at the attention. "We will see each other again in Heaven," Isaac gasped, looking up at the woman with firm tears in his eyes. "Of that, I am sure."

"If you think I'm going to let you go that easily after finding you all these years gone," Aramis growled. "You are mistaken, Father!" she tore her blue sash loose from beneath her belts and started to tie it around his torso to staunch the flow.

"My life is not your to give or take, but God's." He chocked.

"Aramis!" Athos called, running into the cellar room, her pistol drawn with Mother Superior and a few other nuns behind her. She instantly took in the scene. "What do you need?" she demanded.

Aramis forced back tears, she would be damned if she let God take him now. "Help me get him upstairs!"

Athos nodded and tucked her pistol away and grasped Isaac behind the knees while Aramis took him under the arms. He cried out as they lifted him, and he tried to stifle it as they took him up the stairs.

"I need my kit from my saddlebag. Boiled water, brandy, cloth!" Aramis instructed the nuns and they scattered to do her biding as Mother Superior guided them to the closest bedchamber.

The two Musketeers laid him on the table that was dragged from the wall to center room. Each of the nuns returned consecutively with all the she requested.

"Aramis, do you need me?" Athos questioned, carefully watching her as the other woman quickly sorted out her tools in need of them. "That hole needs to be boarded up before any more men can slip in."

"I will assist her," Mother Superior said, uncorking the brandy bottle and pouring some into a cup. Athos nodded and left. "Father, drink this." Mother Superior said, her one hand at the man's nape, raising his head lightly as she put the cup to his lips.

"No." He denied, turning his head away. He whimpered. "I do not partake in such ways."

"You will in this." Aramis snapped, coming to his side. "This is a pain you will be want in numbing. Drink."

The pain briefly fled from his eye as he looked at her. "I will not be clouded in my death." Mother Superior had a briefly defiant look on her face and seemed about to make him drink, before she laid his head back down and took the cup away. She would not force herself on someone's last wishes and beliefs.

"I am not letting you die." She growled. "Swear you will fight until the last moment."

"I swear," he said faintly. Aramis nodded and unwrapped his wound and cut open his robe. It still bleed rather freely. Mother Superior mopped away the blood.

"The ball's still in there," Aramis said. "We need to remove it. Hold him down, strong as you can. He'll fight you." Mother Superior nodded and locked the Priest down under strong grip. With a sterilized dagger, Aramis dug into the wound.

Isaac cried out at the fresh lava in his flesh, and his previously flagging strength reared its head as he bucked against the pain, struggling as Aramis tried to find the ball before she was forced to push her fingers into the wound. Isaac screamed and then went slack, passed-out from the pain. It was a relief when she found the lead ball. A surge of blood followed its removal, before flowing sluggishly. Mother Superior cleaned the wound with cloth and boiled water before splashing the wound with a healthy dose of brandy that even in unconsciousness, made Isaac whimper. The Musketeer didn't miss the shot she took for herself as Aramis cleaned her hands stained with wet blood and set about putting thread through needle. There was no telling now what kind of internal damage the ball and the knife had done. Time would be the deciding factor. Either he would recover, or slowly bleed internally and there would be nothing she could do to stop it—just like so many other things.

When she finished sewing the wound in his abdomen and wrapped it, the nuns carefully lifted him and settled him comfortably on the bed. They stayed at his bedside, heads bowed in prayer. Aramis lingered briefly bowing her own head, before she gave them instruction. Keep an eye for fever and breaths, and if he woke, no matter how briefly, to get him to drink the herbs she had left, steeped in boiled water.

She leaned on the wall outside the room and let out a shaky breath. Her hands trembled lightly the same as she stared down at them, his blood still staining her hands, even as she had washed them. Ringed around her fingernails, in the creases of her palms.

Athos made a silent appearance, finished from boarding the broken hole the assassins had come through into the cellar. In a bit, with a few other of the nuns to guide her, she could head back into the bowels of the convent and search for any other such intrusions by torch. Night would soon fall, and they would become blind to any actions of Gallagher's.

The woman didn't say anything and Aramis found that a silent comfort. Surely God would not be so cruel to take this man from her a second time, this time, truly forever?

* * *

The Musketeers rode hard. There was but six of them. Their Captain, still healing from an injury given to him by the man that d'Artagnan had defended him from to gain his commission into the King's Musketeers. Porthos and d'Artagnan, two-forth's of the Inseparables. Two old, battle-wounded, retired Musketeers; Serge the garrison cook and One-Eyed Florian his assistant. And young stable boy, hardly sixteen, Jacques. But it was seven if you included Serge's blunderbuss, Cleopatra, who was a threat unto herself, and entity of her own—responsible for more deaths than even her namesake.

Their hope was for the mercenaries to see the uniform, and not who wore it. The Cardinal would send the regiment after them, but they would never make it in time. But hopefully, this ragtag group would if they rode hard enough. Athos and Aramis would hold down the fort until their dying breath, the Queen's life over their own—with a bit of luck and skill, that was a situation not like to happen—and then they would come and kick down the doors themselves.

* * *

Anne lay in bed in Mother Superior's room, tossing and turning. Night had fallen, but the hammering from outside was constant, and she believed it not likely for her to get any rest. She sighed and rose, and sat on the end of the bed that was just within sight of the open doorway. She looked into the other chamber and in the soft orange glow of the candlelight, Aramis sat on the end of the bench she had used as a shooting perch, her head bowed into her hands.

She had heard the gunshot, so close inside. Athos had told her of the Priest injury and Aramis' move to save him. She wasn't sure if the other Musketeer knew or suspected of Aramis' past with the Father, but she wished dearly to lend her own comfort to her fellow Spaniard.

"What are they building?" Anne whispered in question.

Aramis sighed. "Battering ram, perhaps, or a ladder. There's no way to be sure."

She nodded and the silence spread. She watched the other woman as she ran her fingers through her unruly hair over and over again. She had striped off her frock and belts, leaving her in deep blue shirtsleeves, her musket laying across her knees. Finally, Anne stood and walked to the door, her hand raised against the jamb.

"A year after I married," she whispered, and her throat tightened briefly. "I, too, fell pregnant." Aramis looked over at her in surprise. "It was perfect," she continued. "I could feel my child inside me... moving and kicking." Her hand went to her stomach in memory. "I had his whole life planned out—what he would do... and be like. Then..." She paused and closed her eyes briefly before swallowing. "And then I lost the baby." She paused in the middle of the room. "It's been six years, and I've never forgotten that child—my child—for a single day. I can't proclaim to know Father Isaac's thoughts, but I am certain that he never forgot you... or your baby. Just as the same is for you."

Aramis admitted after a moment, "All these years, I've believed Isaac to be the only man who could truly make me happy. He was an ideal that I held every man I've ever been with to. But he was right—it was all just a fantasy, a lie."

"How _is_ your friend?" She stepped closer.

"Touch and go for a bit at the beginning, he lost a bit of blood, but with time, Isaac will recover." She gave a shaky breath. "He knows me better then I know myself. He'd been right to stay away from me. One day back together again and he gets shot."

"No, Aramis. No." Anne gasped, and knelt in front of the woman. "You are brave and honourable... and kind. Any man—or _woman_ —would be fortunate to be loved by you." Her hand grasped the front of her shirtsleeves and Aramis looked up and their eyes connected.

She wasn't sure who initiated it, they both seemed to gravitate towards each other—and their lips met in a soft, wanting caress. When they parted, Anne simple moved the gun from her lap and Aramis took her hands, standing. This time, when they kissed, their was a pleading, lonely desperation as they moved from the chamber and to the bed.

All the while, in the night lit by torch, a few of Gallagher's men were at the base of the convent, hammering away at the brick to clear another path into the cellar.

* * *

Dawn was on approach, the sun slowly coming trough the grey dusk, and still the Musketeers rode, and still, the hammering continued.

Anne giggled pleasantly as Aramis grazed her lips lightly over exposed flesh in the morning light streaming through the open window. Their connection had been made in sympathy, loneliness, loss, and want.

The door opened promptly, and all three woman froze as Athos stood in the doorway.

"Athos—" Aramis started, partly shielding the Queen from sight.

"Get up." She told Aramis, her voice still. "Your Majesty." She bowed her head formerly to the naked Queen and backed out, slamming the door.

Aramis scrambled from bed, cursing softly as she rushed to put her clothes back on.

"Aramis," Anne whispered, the sheet held around her body as she sat at the edge of the bed.

Aramis paused in her task, half-dressed as she dropped to her knees in front of her; not like a prostrate follower, but that of a lover. She took the light-haired woman's hand and pressed a kiss to her palm. "My Anne." She briefly laid her head in the Queen's lap and Anne brushed her fingers through the Spaniard's curly locks.

"Don't ruin it by regretting it." She whispered.

Aramis shook her head. "I could never regret you, Anne." Finally, she stood, and finished dressing, minus the sash around her waist. "Do not worry." She imparted before she left the Queen to get dressed herself.

Aramis pressed her lips to the Queen's cross as she crossed through the chapel to the sacristy where Athos was awaiting, dread in her stomach. She didn't regret what happened with the Queen, though she know that it shouldn't of happened—but she felt it worse that they had been caught, instead of the act itself.

"I still can't see what they're building." Athos said, her voice blank from where she stood at the window, her back to the other woman. "They could be tunnelling..." She turned to look at Aramis, her face as mask. There was a stillness in Athos was more frightening than any violence could be.

"What you saw in there..."

"I didn't see anything because I've been in here all morning." Her approach on the Spaniard was slow, almost predatory. "And so I couldn't possibly have seen a thing, you understand?" Aramis slowly started to nod, but then Athos' cool surface cracked and fractured. "I cannot believe you slept with the Queen!" She screamed and shoved Aramis against the wall.

The assaulted woman didn't resist, but grimaced nonetheless; Athos clearly wasn't playing around. "Not so loud."

"Not so loud?" she repeated. And then louder, "Not so loud?! Why? Afraid the nuns might hear? Did you do something wrong, Aramis, is that it?"

"I'm not sorry, Athos." She replied in an undertone.

"Well, you should be." Athos spat, her blues eyes glowing. "What could you have been thinking? The Queen—clearly not with your head."

"It wasn't like it was planned." She protested.

"You may think that sounds better, but it does not."

"It's not as if I was the only one."

"She is the Queen!" she bit out.

"We were two consenting adults." Aramis whispered. "There was no Queen and her Knight. We were just two people, seeking comfort and love in one another."

"Love." She scoffed in disgust and turned away from her friend. "The Queen is _not_ a regular woman—she is the _Queen_ for God's sake! What if someone finds out?" She spun on the woman with a slashing gesture. "You could be hung for treason, Aramis! And me alongside you for letting it happen."

"Glad to see exactly where your concerns lie." Aramis said sarcastically.

"This is not funny." She snapped.

Aramis opened her mouth to give a snappish reply of her own, but before she could reply with something unhelpful to further the situation, there was a loud crack from outside and a ball whipped close by Athos' head and planted into the opposite wall. Both woman dropped to the floor.

"We'll talk about this later!" Athos growled at her from the floor.

"If it makes you feel better... There's more chance we'll be killed here and take it with us to the grave." Aramis tried.

"Such comfort you give me." She responded dryly. There was silence between them as no more gunfire seemed to be forthcoming and they slowly rose, but out of sight of the window.

"So, you're good?" Aramis asked carefully.

Athos' stare was piercing, her arms crossed over her chest as she leaned against the opposite wall. "For now." She said finally.

The markswoman nodded and started for the door. "I should head back."

"We _will_ talk on this later." Athos said.

She sighed. "I know." Aramis returned across the chapel to find Anne dressed and waiting. The Musketeers bowed lightly to her. "Your Majesty should probably wait with the nuns."

"I want to stay here and help you." Anne replied and approached.

"I don't think—" Aramis tried, picking up her musket from where it was leaned against the wall, checking the prime. She thought that Athos might rest-easy if the Queen was away from her seducing hands, as it was.

"I am the Queen and this is my decision." She stated firmly, unmoved by her Musketeer's plea. "Besides, surely I'm safer with you than in the care of unarmed nuns."

"Depends on by which 'safe' you mean," Aramis murmured with double meaning and the Queen couldn't help the girly smile that spread across her lips. "Anne." She said dangerously.

* * *

When Athos went back to the window, eyeglass in-hand and Mother Superior present, she made a unhappy discovery. She saw men run from the protection of the wood and to the convent wall with torches. Stepping onto the bench, she leaned dangerously and precariously outside the window to catch and glimpse and what she discover put her on the move. Athos grabbed the musket and bid Mother Superior to gather the pistol and charges as she ran across the chapel and to the chamber. Any thoughts of what Aramis and the Queen had done were put aside as she focused on the more present threat.

"Aramis! They're getting in below us! We have to get the Queen somewhere we can defend her."

"There's a storeroom in the cellar," Mother Superior supplied the answer. "Only one way in."

"Perfect." Athos nodded. "Quickly now!" she urged them.

Athos lead them down the stairs, and stopped them at the bottom, just out of sight. She heard the scuff of footsteps and counted. Their shadows stretched and flickered into view as they stepped into the end of the way on the right and she jumped around the cover and fired at them before they knew what was happening. One with the musket, before fire was returned. She switched weapons with Aramis, taking the woman's pistol.

"Take the Queen." She ordered.

"Which way?" Aramis asked of Mother Superior.

"This way." The nun indicated the left.

"Go!" Athos called and came into view of the assassins, a loaded pistol in each hand. Aramis ushered Mother Superior and the Queen in front of her. Athos fired, but they were ready for her now, and jumped from path before her balls could cut into them. In a smooth move, she hooked the spent pistols onto her belt and pulled her rapier, charging the men, their own swords drawn.

She killed both men with quick and harsh cuts of her sword and retreated back down the hall to the storeroom that the others were holed in, a table thrown across the open doorjamb for added cover. Aramis shot a man as Athos jumped the table to join them, switching guns with Mother Superior who was acting as loader.

Gallagher and his men held up in the room a short distance from their own and the two groups exchanged useless cover fire.

* * *

The Cardinal met the King with a small clutch of Red Guards, his Majesty frantic on his interrupted hunting trip with news of men trying to kill his Queen Anne. It lent perfect opportunity as Count Mellendorf was in attendance with his daughter Charlotte and Richelieu quickly laid blame at the innocent man's unsuspecting feet.

"A promissory note was found on one of the assassins—signed for by Count Mellendorf. Search his luggage!" Richelieu made order of his Red Guards.

"Why would I kill the Queen?" Mellendorf asked in surprised confusion at such an accusation. A Guard handed over a the note Richelieu ordered Milady to hide in the man's luggage for maximum affect and after a brief exchange, placed the man under arrest. "A note promising the leader of the assassins, Charles Gallagher, safe passage to Germany, on proof of the death of Queen Anne."

"Throw them in the Bastille!" Louis ordered and Richelieu saw it done, his ass thoroughly covered. At least this was something Milady had done right in a list of things made bad.

"The Musketeers will protect Anne." Louis swore through tears, but alone with the Cardinal. "They will not allow any harm to come to her!"

* * *

Aramis set about reloading her musket in the pause of fire. Her fingertips scraped the bottom her empty pouch. "I'm out of balls." She looked across the doorway to where Athos was seated, Anne and Mother Superior out of harms way in the corner behind the Lieutenant. "How many shots do we have left?" Athos silently held out her palm, showing the two lead balls in embrace there. Aramis sighed heavily, thunking her head lightly back against the wall. "There's at least four of them out there." Athos just flicked a ball across the floor to her. She rammed the ball down the barrel as Athos did the same with the pistol.

There was a clank outside the storeroom in the hall that caused both woman to grimace and share a look. It was a test by Gallagher to the assumption that they weren't shooting because they were out, and he would be mostly right. Any moment now, the man would take opportunity and press attack.

"Did I mention this has to count?" Athos finally spoke, her smile grim.

"Thanks for the reminder." She rolled her eyes.

Gallagher nodded to one of his men and the man stepped out into the hall. He was nearly to the storeroom when Aramis rose on her knee and fired, killing the man before dropping back to safety as a shot was fired at her.

"Did you get him?"

Her expression was deadpan, "Athos, please."

Athos looked at the pistol in her hand. "Our last shot."

"Shall I make it count?" she accepted the given weapon. "If I ever complain about an assignment not being exciting enough—"

"I'll kick you so hard, you'll beg me to shoot you." Athos finished for her.

Aramis paused and looked across at the woman and her masked expression. "Not enough to kill me, mind you." She said slowly.

"Not enough to kill you, mind." Athos repeated in such an aloof manner, and Aramis wondered if she was still mad about her sleeping with the Queen—her gaze flickered to the royal.

"Are you—"

"Shall I do it now, to reiterate the point?" She held her hand out for the pistol.

"No, no." Aramis shook her head, holding weapon tight to chest lest the woman lunge across to retrieve it. "No need. You shan't waste any bullets... this is our last."

"Pity," she tsked quietly. "I'll admit I was looking forward to it."

"Well..." was all Aramis could think to say as they played in waiting with Gallagher.

* * *

When the Musketeers rode to the convent gates, they met no resistance, but instead, found several nuns rushing to open the gates. They quickly dismounted and were lead into the convent and explained the situation. Athos and Aramis were holed-up in the cellar storeroom with the Queen and Mother Superior, surrounded by Gallagher's men.

Gallagher had put guards all along the way, and at top of cellar stair, Treville fired at the man at the bottle of the stairs. He ducked from fire, returned it, shouting out a warning to the others. Hearing the cry Gallagher sent the remaining men with him after the new arrivals.

Boldly, a man rushed up the stairs, firing at the group. Porthos shot the man promptly, and kicked a barrel down at another man following. In a surge of adrenaline, Porthos rushed down the stairs, unprepared for the appearance of a pistol in her face. She flinched at the shot fired, but it was the man in front of her that fell dead. She looked to her side and saw Serge with spent pistol, even more eager for battle after years stuck in kitchen.

"Wait! No! Get back, get back!" Porthos shouted, but Serge didn't listen and left the protection that the stair brought and was shot by a man down the hall. The old man groaned as he slowly slumped down to the ground.

"Take her." He urged in raspy voice.

With saddened and furious expression, Porthos claimed Cleopatra and aimed at the charging man with his sword drawn. The kick was hard, and the impact of the large ball threw the unsuspecting man back. Porthos was just surprised the thing didn't explode in her hand.

That was when Gallagher decided to make his escape. With reinforcements present, it was now a fool's errand—and he was far from that.

Aramis and Athos rose. They heard the fire and knew that either the nuns decided a revolt with a hidden cache of weapons, or Porthos and d'Artagnan had returned with reinforcements—and not a minute too soon! With a nod to Aramis who handed over loaded pistol, Athos drew her sword and stepped from the storeroom, peeling off the to immediate left, the path so taken by Gallagher.

"Athos!" Treville yelled. "Aramis!"

"In here." Aramis called, resheathing her own drawn sword, sighing in relief as she stepped into view.

"Everyone alive?" Treville demanded upon arrival, the others behind him.

"Why wouldn't we be?" She smiled and stepped aside to reveal the Queen and Mother Superior. "It's good to see you guys!"

"Captain!" Anne cried in relief at seeing the man.

"Your Majesty. Thank God." Treville, and the others behind him, bowed. "Where's Athos?"

* * *

Athos paused and cocked the loaded pistol, aiming it at Gallagher's back at the end of the hall. Gallagher paused and slowly turned. She took a few steps closer.

"Tell me who hired you and I'll spare you the hangman's noose."

"What kind of soldier would I be if I broke a confidence like that?" he replied easily.

"One who's not ready to die yet."

In response, his blue eyes narrowed lightly, he planted his feet and rose his right hand, palm spread as he slowly and purposefully reached for the pistol in his belt.

"Don't." She warned him, just as he grasped the grip and pulled. She fired, and he gasped lightly as the ball impacted. He reached out a hand to the wall the steady himself and slowly slumped to the ground. He groaned as Athos made her approach, there was no threat from him now.

"Why?" she asked him quietly.

His only response was in asking for his last rites. She knew she was going to get nothing out of him, and while she cursed him for it, she could respect his will. She went to retrieve Mother Superior.

Aramis kept a brief eye on the pair at the end of the hall to make sure the man didn't try something in a last-ditch effort, as behind her, down the short steps, Treville, d'Artagnan, Athos, and Porthos stood together. The Queen was upstairs with the nuns, all threat of the assassins gone.

"It seems Count Mellendorf hired them to kill the Queen," Treville finished explaing, "So his daughter could marry the King."

"You have evidence of this?" Athos asked.

d'Artagnan nodded, his arms crossed over his chest and his hand lightly laid over the bled-through bandanna on his forearm, obscuring it. "His name is on the ledger."

"And he was openly seeking a husband for his daughter." Treville added.

Aramis joined them, disinclined in this. "This Gallagher was exiled from his country for being a Catholic—his land stolen and given to followers of a rival faith. You'd think after that, he'd have a healthy dislike of all things Protestant. I know I would."

"Mmm." Porthos nodded her agreement. "Instead, 'e agrees to kill our Catholic Queen to allow a German Protestant to take 'er place on the throne." She shook her head. "Doesn't feel right."

"He's a mercenary." d'Artagnan reasoned.

"One with principles... of a kind." Athos allowed.

Mother Superior joined them. "Before he passed away, _Monsieur_ Gallagher said there was money in his saddlebags to pay for the repair of the convent."

Treville, Athos, Aramis, and Mother Superior went outside the convent to locate Gallagher's horse, and d'Artagnan, Porthos, One-Eyed Florian, and Jacques worked about collecting the bodies of the killed.

Horses found, Aramis searched the saddle bags and retrieved a small flip box. She opened it, but discovered few coins in the bottom. She handed it to Treville. "That's all there is."

"Nothing else?" Treville question and Aramis shook her head. He emptied it of coin, and handed them over to Mother Superior, who nodded and left.

Athos sighed, but then straightened as she saw the design on the inside of the box—a forget-me-not flower. So in the end, Gallagher really did tell her who hired him. "Aramis is right. This isn't the work of Mellendorf. It's something much bigger." She pointed at the box. "That flower is the signature of a woman who works for the Cardinal."

There was silence as they looked at her in surprise. Seeing it, Athos was starting to realize that the truth couldn't be hidden from the others any longer. This was just too big and no longer just a personal matter concerning the past, Anne—Milady, was too much of a growing problem that had her hands in much bigger feats.

"All the bodies are gathered." d'Artagnan reported, joining them. He carefully held his burning limb in a casual manner and paused when he spotted the box and the forget-me-not imprint. "What's that?" he asked slowly.

"From the woman who hired Gallagher." Aramis said.

"Woman?"

"Likely the same you saw at the moneylender's." Treville tucked the box back in the saddleback with his one arm.

"You saw her?" Athos demanded.

"A-A glimpse." He stammered in surprise. "She got away."

Athos gave a silent breath of relief in this. If d'Artagnan had come face-to-face with Anne, she was sure she would not be speaking to the man now. That was too close a call to have unknowingly had.

"You know her?" he asked. He swallowed, his heart hammering inside his chest because he also knew a woman who liked forget-me-nots and was quite the murderess. Twice, he had smelt her scent this last day, and once with the Cardinal.

"We can discuss this on the road back to Paris." Treville interrupted any further conversation. "Right now, we need to return the Queen to his Majesty." The others nodded.

"I wish to check in with Isaac before we depart," Aramis voiced and the Captain nodded. She looked at d'Artagnan's arm pointedly. "And that arm as well."

"My arm's fine!" he protested pointlessly as they left him. "Ah..." he sighed quietly as they left. He turned his head towards the sky and rubbed his face, hissing at the twinge in his arm the movement brought. He looked at the horse as he rubbed at his arm. "Got any advice?" he asked the animal, who just snorted and shook its head in response. "Thought so…"

* * *

Aramis paused briefly outside his room, taking a moment to level herself. "Well, look who's still of this world." Aramis said cheerfully upon entry of the room to see Isaac's eyes open. With a nod to the present nun, the woman left them to their privacy. She sat in the vacated chair at his bedside.

"Because of you," he whispered. "Thank you, Aramis."

"Sure..." she sighed and the silence stretched between them, weighted. She narrowed her eyes and blurted, "Let's just call it a returned _kindness_ , hmm?"

He looked at her in confusion for a moment, but then his caramel eyes cleared. "Ah. You are taking my words in the wrong meaning."

"Oh?" she inquired. "Care to explain it to me, then?"

"I meant what I said..." he said quietly, and cleared his throat. Without word, she held a cup of water to his lips. "Thank you. I meant what I said—we were never meant to be together. My true love is God. The death of our child helped me realize that." He swallowed and tears pricked her brown gaze. "I don't wish to try and make light of it and say it was destiny that the child was lost to us—or be so harsh to say that what happened, happened. But... it did happen, and no matter how much we may wish it, we cannot change the past. Hah... that does sound harsh after all."

He shifted and grimaced for the pain. "Have the Sisters been giving you the herb I left?" she asked. No matter her feelings, it was something that she could never turn off.

"I don't like it." He protested, "It's make my mind cloudy and numb."

"That's what it's supposed to do," she said dryly. "You could always drink the brandy."

He gave her a look with plain eyes that made her chuckle. "You're strong, Aramis. Life is not just one thing. It's ever-changing. Sometimes, it seems as if there is only bad and flaw, but there is always good and not so flawed. You found a family that I never could have been—a bond and connection with your Musketeers. It's something that I never could of offered you. The good. Something that you so deserved." He gave her a gentle smile. "Take care of yourself, Aramis."

Knowing a goodbye when she heard it, Aramis slowly rose. She didn't say anything, but bent over him and pressed her lips to his sweaty forehead, her eyes closing. A single tear dripped onto his flesh as she stood and left him. This time, it was her doing the kindness. This time, she knew she would never see him again.

* * *

Needing a distraction, the Spaniard tracked down her Gascon. Dealing with her own feelings, she didn't realize just how easily she had caught the man; his own thoughts and anxiety driving him to distraction.

"This is a mess!" Aramis exclaimed in the refectory, with its tables returned as she unwrapped the scarf from d'Artagnan's arm; the material sticking to the blood, both dried and new. He growled at her. "It look like a drunkard treated it."

"If by drunkard, you mean Porthos." He said as she helped him remove his doublet and shirtsleeves.

"That seems about right." She said dryly, and with wet cloth, proceeded to clean away the blood.

"It's just a graze isn't it? It's not like we had time to take a leisurely pause—"

"It _could_ have done with a stitch." Aramis replied. "But it's a little late with the state it's in now." She splashed it with alcohol and he hissed in response. "But given it was Porthos you were left with, be thankful, she has the sewing skills of a drunk goat!" d'Artagnan snorted in laughter as she dried the wound and wrapped it with clean cloth. "Know this—I _will_ be checking to for infection. So don't think you can avoid me because I will always find you, Charlie." She smiled.

"I know," he muttered, putting his shirts back on. "But I'll probably try anyways." It wasn't long after that, that with the Queen and Serge's body, the headed back to Paris.

* * *

The Cardinal returned from the Bastille with his visit to Count Mellendorf, satisfied in at least this, just in time to step behind the King as he greeted the Queen—freshly bathed and in her royal gown, fan spread out behind her shoulders.

"We should confront him now," Aramis said quietly to the others as she glared at the Cardinal as the Queen and King embraced each other again.

"Not here, and not until we are certain." Treville said. "Without evidence, it's just a wild and unsubstantiated accusation, not liable to hold over Louis love of the Cardinal." He glanced at Athos, "This woman you suspect, who is she?"

"She'd the most dangerous person I've ever known." She answered. "She won't be easy to find." d'Artagnan stayed silent next to her, stiff-shouldered.

"Your Majesty's safe return is a cause for great rejoicing," The Cardinal told the Queen falsely. "And I have excellent news. The man behind the attack on your life is in custody—pending execution. Count Mellendorf signed a confession, accepting full responsibility for the attack."

"Mellendorf... Who'd have thought." Louis shook his head, holding Anne's hand next to him. "Well done, Cardinal." He clapped and everyone else present followed suit. Anne caught Aramis' gaze sadly before she turned away with the King and left.

"That's it?" Aramis growled. "We know he's behind this and we let him stand there—the hero of the hour." She scoffed is hate as Porthos guided her out with the other with a hand on her shoulder. "Near the Queen… He should be in chains, not Mellendorf!" The others dispersed as well.

"This isn't over yet." Athos muttered and approached the Cardinal, naught but the pair of them left in the room. "Your Eminence—may I congratulate you on capturing the culprit?" Richelieu allowed a small smile, but it dropped from face when Athos continued, her voice overly pleasant and reassuring. "I don't believe Mellendorf acted alone. The assassins were hired by a woman. Perhaps, the woman who killed the moneylender. Be assured, I will not rest until she'd brought to justice."

"Excellent." He replied tightly. "Forgive me, I'm late for Mass." And he started to leave.

Athos turned to him. "Her— _and_ whoever she works for." She promised.

* * *

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

So, I bended Isabelle/Sister Helene, into Father Isaac. And as was vaguely mentioned before, I switched it and made it so that it was Aramis who fell pregnant when they were teenagers and she lost the baby. And instead of killing him off like they did Isabelle and it seemed anyone that Aramis has as a love-interest, I left him to live.

I'm really excited and nervous for chapter 10, I have so many ideas flowing for it! :)

y


	10. Pursuit 10: Musketeers Don't Die Easily

**a/n:** **Disclaimer: I do not own The Musketeers, just going to borrow them and their adventures for a bit.** **No copyright infringement is intended; just some good old gender-bending!**

 **Note: So... here it is everybody, the epic finale! I say that, because I do not intend to take this to Season 2. I'm sorry if this causes disappointment, but things will just become too twisted and complicated. So in this chapter, though it follows the episode's main plot line** — **I intend to twist the end, so I hope you can look forward to that. Enjoy!**

 **Episode Tag:** _Season 1, Episode 10: Musketeers Don't Die Easily._ _& scene taken from Episode 1: Friends and Enemies._

* * *

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

 **Charl(i)es' Angels!**  
 **Pursuit 10:** _Musketeers Don't Die Easily_ —

 _"Still need that lesson in manners?" she asked him. She flicked his pistol in instruction and he slowly backed up on the landing until his back pressed against his room door. She approached him enticingly and devoured his lips hungrily, pushing him back through the door and into the room._

 _His hands on her hips, he turned them and they fell onto the bed with tongues twisted. His teeth pulled on the chocker around her neck as he kissed the milky flesh, but she grabbed the front of his doublet, pulling the laces open. He pulled back to assist._

 _"What of your companion? Won't he notice your absence?"_

 _"Trust me." She whispered. "He won't notice a thing." And she rolled them, so it was her straddling his hips. "Turn your mind to better things." And she reached between them and grasped him through his breaches, nipping his bottom lip as he groaned._

 _._

 _She watched him as she laid on her, the blanket pulled up to their waists. The candlelight was gentle and cast the plains of his handsome face, his olive skin a beautiful shade. His fingertips traced distractedly on her wrist where her hand lay on his chest._

 _"What is it? What troubles you so?"_

 _"I'd rather not talk about it." He took her finger and kissed the pad before he turned his head on the pillow and looked at her. "I just want to watch you and forget for a few hours." His gaze flickered down to the only thing she was left wearing, the lace chocker around her neck._

 _He reached across and his index finger traced down the side of her supple neck. He could feel her gulp as he brushed it back to reveal the thin scars he knew he had glimpsed earlier. The rough pad of his fingertip brushed against the sensitive flesh. "What happened?"_

 _She took his hand. "The woman that I loved tried to kill me." She moved his hand to rest back on his chest._

 _"Say the word, and I would kill her for you."_

 _"I might hold you to that one day." And she leaned forward and kissed him to distraction. One day..._

 _._

 _The dawn came and he awoke alone in bed, with naught but a bloody dagger stabbed into the second pillow to mark the remembered night and encounter. And with it, the desire to find the woman who put it there, again._

* * *

Athos was dishevelled, and drunk. But lately, that seemed to be more the norm. Ever since she confessed to the others about her ex-lover Anne, or the recently renamed Milady de Winter, the fractured control over her past guilt and tragedies were growing harder and harder to snuff out with drink. Despite that she knew they held no judgement in regards towards her, it left her feeling no less exposed. And so, she tried anyways.

She drank to excess, just like that night back at her family home in Pinon, that she believed the dark-haired woman another hallucination. It was only as she followed behind her, oblivious that she realized it was flesh and blood that she was tracking.

She finished the last dregs of wine from the third bottle of her consumption that night and threw it aside from grasp. The bottle shattered to ground and she pulled the pistol from her belt. She cocked the weapon and Milady tensed the instant before the cold barrel pressed against the nape of her neck. Athos grabbed the knife Milady attempted to pull and threw it away, headless of the people in the square that were starting to notice. She grabbed the woman around the throat and under her chin, pressed to her back.

"Ready to pay for your crimes... _Milady?_ " Athos hissed into her ear, her breath sour of wine.

* * *

Despite the late hour, Aramis and d'Artagnan lingered in the yard, sitting at their table. She sat on the with her back against the table, her pistol in her lap and her tool cleaning kit next to her thigh on the bench. He watched her as over and over again, she cleaned her weapons as he slowly deconstructed the apple in his hand with a pairing knife.

"How many times have you cleaned those pistols tonight?" he wondered.

"Respect your weapons, and it will respect you." She told him in the tone of voice that he had come to recognize when she imparted wisdom onto him. He groaned internally, knowing it was just best to let her get on with it. "Another thing you need to learn if you want to be a good Musketeer."

"I'm already a Musketeer." He complained.

"Ah. Just because you have the uniform, doesn't mean there still aren't things to learn, skills to obtain."

"Alright, just so I know, this whole..." he circled the knife in a gesture before eating an apple slice, "'d'Artagnan the Apprentice Musketeer' thing, how long does that last?"

"Well," she grinned. "As long as it's funny."

"Well, it's not." He returned. And then with knowing false hope, "So, are we done?"

"No," she chuckled. "It still is."

He scoffed and pouted at he ate his next apple slice and her grin widened as she started to reload her pistol without even looking at it—that was how well she knew her weapon.

"You know, when you eat like that," she cooed at him teasingly, "It makes you look adorable?"

His cheeks turned ruddy at her words and her grin threatened to split her face. "You're not allowed to say things like that!" he protested.

"Why does it make you so uncomfortable, hmm?" she elbowed his thigh. Finished with her pistol, she set it on the bench and turned to the Gascon fully. She turned smouldering eyes to him playfully. "Afraid you'll finally _submit_?"

His embarrassment turned to nervousness. It was something that she had said to him before when they were in Ninon de Larroque's salon, but what he was to 'submit' to was still the unanswered question.

"What _does_ that mean?" he asked her, almost desperately. The only response he got was the twitch at the corner of her mouth. Aramis was a beautiful woman, just as Athos and Porthos, and though they could make his heart thump, he thought of them as his sisters and friends. His heart beat for another, even though it ached, it pined for C—

He bumped her shoulder with his knee, jolting her. "Ah, Charlie..." she sighed and turned it 'off'. Even now, she knew it did not affect him as it did others—even the Queen—because despite whatever had happened to make her do it, d'Artagnan still loved Constance.

Treville came out of his office and leaned on the porch railing for some fresh air from the paperwork that never seemed to end.

"Athos and Porthos have been gone a while," d'Artagnan said, changing the subject pointedly and she allowed it. "Do you think they—"

Porthos ran into the garrison, breathless and frantic. "Athos... she's taken a woman hostage. She'd threatening' to kill 'er!"

"What?" Aramis and d'Artagnan leapt to their feet and followed Porthos to the town square.

"Get out of the way!" Porthos barked towards some people in their path as she charged through and halted in front of Athos holding Milady hostage. "Athos, let 'er go."

"She is a liar and a murderer." Athos declared instead. "And she is the Cardinal's spy. And my mistress." They looked at her in shock.

Milady's eyes locked onto d'Artagnan. "Help me, d'Artagnan. She's gone mad!" This was all too unreal. An imitation unto itself.

"You know her?" Athos demanded. d'Artagnan didn't answer, but he looked uncomfortable and worried.

Aramis' brows flickered in realization and she looked at him. "She was your mysterious benefactor, is it? Are you lovers, too?"

"Once," he stammered. "Before I knew you!"

"You slept with 'er?" Porthos spat.

"You'd don't understand—" he pleaded, but the tall woman shoved him angrily and in disgust. He looked at her in shock. "I—"

"You kept the truth from me!" Athos accused him, the pistol digging into Milady's flesh in her anger.

"No. Athos, I swear, I didn't know." He pleaded with his best friend. "I didn't know..."

"Well, now you must choose, d'Artagnan." Athos hissed, "If you help her, you are not fit to call yourself a Musketeer."

"Athos..." the hurt in his voice was clear. He paused, looked almost pained, and then said finally: "I can't let you just murder her. No matter what she has done."

"d'Artagnan, help me." Milady urged through strained voice, her own hand gripping Athos' arm at her neck, desperately, clinging to the only friendly connection present. It was like she was having an out-of-body experience—the same feeling she had at her hanging—and somehow she'd made it out of that impossible situation alive. Tonight was going to be the same.

Athos turned the gun from Milady and directed it at d'Artagnan. Though there was heat in the air, this was a unexpected gesture. Porthos grabbed d'Artagnan to prevent his charge.

Aramis stepped partly in front of him, her hand out. "Hey! Let's talk about this, Athos! Put her down!"

"Stop this at once!" Treville demanded, finally arriving behind the three in the square. "That's an order!"

d'Artagnan saw Athos' focus shift to Treville and took advantage. He broke from Porthos' grasp and rushed Athos, grabbing the gun. Everything moved as if fast and slow.

"Charlie, no!" Aramis screamed, but the crack of the fired gun split the quiet of the night air.

d'Artagnan stumbled back in confusion, his eyes flooded with pain. He fell back into Treville, who lowered him ground.

"You fool!" Athos shouted, releasing Milady.

"What did you do?" Porthos shook Athos.

"Wha?" d'Artagnan mumbled, laying in Treville's arms and looked up at a hazy Aramis crowding him.

"Stay awake, stay awake, stay awake." Aramis hissed harshly at him, the blood flooding his side, but his eyes flickered and slowly closed as he passed out, but she made no conscious move to treat the wound.

"Athos." Treville addressed, his voice hard. His grip on the Gascon firm and resolve in his blue-grey gaze. "This is your choice. A slight towards you."

Athos paused, breathing heavily as she pushed Porthos aside and stared down at d'Artagnan. "Leave him!" she spat.

Slowly, the others rose and left d'Artagnan bleeding on the ground. Milady watched them in complete shock. His getting shot had halted her retreat.

"You just mean to leave him to die?" she called after them.

Aramis paused and turned back. "He's no Inseparable of ours—his fait is as deserved as yours."

And she was left to stand there dumbly as they left the square and d'Artagnan slowly bled out helplessly at her feet. She had thought that at least Captain Treville might have seen sense, but it seemed he was just as mad as they!

After a further moment of contemplation as she weighed her options, she finally knelt at the Gascon's side and tore the hem from her dress. She pressed the bunched material against the wound in his side. He moaned at the contact by stayed unconscious.

"Well, help me, Goddamn you!" Milady screamed at the men that still lingered at the edge of the square. After a moment's indecision, two men approached.

* * *

The next morning, in the presence of his court, the King sat astride a blockade and posed regally for the royal portraitist as Charlotte Mellendorf pleaded on her father's behalf. Count Mellendorf had been languishing in the Bastille for the past three months.

"You may be rest assured, dear Charlotte." Louis told her. "We will discover the truth." Charlotte gave a shaky bow and left. He looked down upon the Cardinal and Captain Treville. "We believe that there is more to this terrible business than meets the eye?"

"We have no conclusive evidence of Count Mellendorf's involvement." Treville agreed, his face and posture a mask for what had transpired in the town square the night before.

"Yes," Richelieu inserted, stepping forward, "Apart from his signed confession."

"Signed under _duress_." Treville added.

"Well, what of the letter in his name promising the mercenary Gallagher safe passage to Germany?" he returned, looking aside at the man.

"Unsigned." Was the retort. "It could have easily be a forgery."

The hostility between the men was muted in the presence of the King, but clear. Louis looked at them. "Do we need to have another tournament, gentlemen?" he inquired. "Treville, you've just recently healed from your shoulder."

"Conflict with Prussia and Sweden is a high price to pay if there is any doubt." Queen Anne cool-headedly diverted a heated moment and steered them back onto topic.

"Your Majesty must send a strong message to those who would meddle in France's affairs." The Cardinal declared, turning from Treville and back to the King. "Mellendorf is guilty! He should be executed without delay."

"We will take no further rash action until addition enquiries have been made." Louis decided, taking a calm composure from his wife.

"Your Majesty is making a mistake!" Richelieu let his frustration and desperation on the matter move his tongue wrongly and a moment later, the price was paid.

"The King does not make mistakes, Cardinal!" Louis shouted at him sharply. "You forget yourself!"

A low murmur went through the small court, and the Queen fought to keep the pleased smile from her lips at the Cardinal's jilted expression. She shared a subtle nod with Treville.

* * *

 _The three women and man arrived back at the garrison, but did not linger in the yard for the curious and questioning stares to linger from the other men at the odd irruption of Porthos and their return absent their fourth Inseparable._

 _Porthos' hand hovered from her body, ready to catch their drunken sister as they climbed the stair to the balcony, should she stumble. But they made it to Treville's office without incident. As soon as the door closed, Athos spun upon Aramis._

 _"Will he survive?" her voice broke._

 _"With that wound... from what I was able to see..." the Spaniard removed her hat and ran her fingers through her hair. Fingers she wished were covered in her brother's blood, for only then would she know he was safe. "If she gets him treatment_ — _he should be fine."_

 _"Oh, God!" Athos moaned, fist to mouth. "He could die and we won't know a thing until it is too late."_

 _"d'Artagnan is a strong lad." Treville inserted firmly, even as he leaned back against his desk for some form of assurance in this unsteady moment. "He knew the consequences of such a plot."_

 _But Athos shook her head, bile rising in her throat. "Not this! He was to be shot in the arm_ — _have I killed our brother?!" her knees gave out in despair and she collapsed to the floor. Her usually composed and aloof self a thing of distant past at the moment, lost in the drunken misery they saw before them. It made the uncertain situation dually nerve-wracking._

 _Aramis slapped the woman harshly to everyone's shock and clarity; the snap of assaulted flesh almost sounding like a shot itself through Athos' heavy breathing. Athos looked up at her with a stinging cheek and blue eyes a bit less clouded._

 _"You have not killed him and will claim no such thing." Aramis stated firmly and took a deep breath. "Everything shall go according to plan_ — _so we must keep to appearances. If Milady believes something amiss, she will kill Charlie."_

 _"I'm going to be sick!" Athos blurted._

 _Porthos moved fast, and shoved the empty basin from Treville's bedside table under the Lieutenant's nose and the woman was sick three bottles of consumed wine. By the time she was finished, pale and covered in a layer of sweat, exhausted, the room smelt of the unpleasant expulsion._

 _"Get her back to her room at the garrison," Treville sighed. "And stay close."_

 _Aramis and Porthos nodded and collected their sister, leaving Treville alone to sit heavily behind his desk and wonder how much of a fool's errand they were playing at. He prayed he didn't lose any of his favoured Musketeers. If d'Artagnan died, his original Inseparable's would be destroyed and their reaction to such news would crack the earth._

* * *

The Cardinal stalked towards Milady in the church's portico from prying eyes. "What do they know?" he demanded.

"Nothing for certain." She told him, folding her fan.

"I am not prepared to reply upon that ignorance!" he shouted.

"No one has identified me—"

"d'Artagnan has seen you, has he not?"

"d'Artagnan will be of no problem," she replied confidently. "I have him well under my thumb."

His grey gaze flickered across her. "For your sake, I hope you are right. For lately, that has proved a false confidence."

Her lips tightened. "Nor is it proved either of us had any connection with Gallagher."

"Athos confronted me on the matter after the King and Queen _reunited_ three months ago," he said. "She would not have confronted me, had they _nothing_ to show for it!"

"Perhaps they _do_ have nothing, and made a calculated risk in confronting you, to see what you might shake loose in an act of panic." She suggested evenly.

"I do not panic!" he snapped. Her only response was to flick open her fan and start fan herself. He narrowed his eyes upon her. "How _is_ Athos? Do you think I don't know about your little public adventure last night?" he sneered, "How is your charming mistress?"

"Drunk, if you must know." She replied tightly. "I was lucky to escape with my life. I might not have if it weren't for d'Artagnan."

"Well, don't get attacked to either." He said cruelly. "Your head will be on the block before mine."

"How very gallant of you." She retorted sarcastically. "You should have more faith. I've been working tirelessly to further your aims."

"Effort is of no use to me, only results!" he barked and shoved her back against the wall. "I want Athos and her friends silenced for good—including your little Gascon pet."

"As much as I would love to see them all dead—isn't that going a little overboard?"

"The dead don't accuse First Minister's of Treason!" he released her and stepped back.

"Musketeers don't die easily." She pointed out, fanning herself casually even though a heat flushed her through racing heart.

"A pleasant sentiment that may be—" he said sarcastically. "Can you _do_ it?"

"If that's what you truly want."

"See that it is done— _properly_ this time." He told her lividly. "This is your last chance. I suggest you take it." He turned with a flap of his black and red robes, leaving her.

She glared after the man, breathing harshly through her nose. She would show him and Athos—she was not a woman to wrong!

* * *

d'Artagnan's heart thumped hard in his chest as he opened his eyes, his side on fire, to find himself in a unfamiliar room. He heard the crack of the pistol shot again, and jolted upright in bed, a sharp pain twisting in his side. He groaned, pressing a hand to his injured ribs. He glanced down on himself, finding him shirtless and his torso wrapped, the bandage bled through.

He threw the blanket aside and stood on bare feet, and went to the foot of the bed where a clean shirtsleeves hung on the bedpost. He quickly slipped it overhead, feeling the pull in his side—and then the barrel of a small pistol pressed against the beck of his head.

"I could blow your brains out now and never think of you again." Milady whispered, having returned from the Cardinal.

d'Artagnan paused, so it had worked. "I'm guessing you didn't bring me here just to shoot me."

It would be so simple to pull the trigger right now. She'd be down one Musketeer and with three left to go. But her thoughts from Louvre to the inn were of a markedly more complex intention that could make this go all the more efficiently. Her original intention still stood—she would turn him. "Well, the question is... can I trust you?"

"I saved your life." He reminded her.

"Hmm." After a moment, she took the pistol away and carefully uncocked the flint. She slowly circled to his front. "The shot grazed your ribs." She touched his injury briefly and he grimaced. "A few inches to the right, and Athos would have killed you." She almost sounded disappointed.

"It was an accident."

"Was it?"

"Yes." He insisted.

"You saw the look on her face when she found out about us. That was no accident. She _hated_ you. They _all_ did. Your so-called sisters. They _left_ you to bleed to death in the square." She turned from him and to the oval table by the wall and set her gun there. His doublet and weapons belt hung on the back of one of the chairs. He only gave it a passing glance. "If it wasn't for me, you'd be dead and forgotten in the morgue."

She watched the corner of his lips tighten, could see the emotions filter through his expressive brown eyes and smiled to herself.

"Why didn't you tell me you were her lover?" he questioned at last, watching her. "You had to of known we were friends."

"It never came up." She paused, her finger giving the table edge a single tap as she thought. "The Cardinal is my patron and protector. He could be yours, as well."

"I hate the Cardinal." He turned from her.

"That's childish talk." She chided and he sat on the far edge of the bed. "Cut your losses now, d'Artagnan." She went around to face him again. "There is no future for you in the Musketeers. I told you of this before, did I not?"

d'Artagnan looked up at her. "I don't believe that." He whispered in denial.

Milady took either side of his face and leaned in, kissing him. After a moment, he pulled back slightly, breathless. She straightened and looked down at him. "Believe that, then."

"The last time I was in your bed," he reminded her, "You murdered a man and blamed me for it."

Amusement flickered in her eyes at this. "I promise I haven't murdered anyone... today or yet."

He exhaled, his eyes rimed with pain and searching. "Tell me what really happened between you and Athos." He said finally.

* * *

Constance had heard the murmurs while in Market, of the confrontation between the famous Musketeer Inseparables. Of the Gascon left on the street to bleed. Her body just reacted and she was running to the garrison, frantic.

She had done as her husband bid in threat, and crushed the love of her life's heart so severely that he could hardly stand to look at her. She had humiliated him, told him he was nothing. But not once did she stop loving him, stop yearning for him.

Though Paris big, it was a conscious choice not to run into someone. And she had consciously forced herself not to automatically search for him in the passing crowds. She couldn't be so cruel as to show herself, to parade in front of him. If she saw him, she knew she would break. And that was something she could not allow, she could not let her husband, with the Cardinal's influence, have his life.

But she also had her maid, Mia, keep a ear out for news, any news concerning the garrison. Because even if she couldn't see him for herself, she had to know that he was all right—all right and alive.

She ran through the garrison tunnel and into the yard, searching frantically for the three women who were walls around him. The other Musketeers looked at her, but they were others that she sought. And then she saw Aramis and Porthos leave from the quarters entrance in the tunnel. The two Musketeers quickly shared a frantic look before they turned to face the formidable woman.

"Where is he?" she demanded, rushing towards the halted pair. "Where is d'Artagnan?"

Porthos shook her head. "'E's not 'ere."

"Tell me he isn't dead." Constance pleaded.

"There's been no news since last night." Aramis admitted.

"What do you mean, 'no news'? Why wouldn't he be here?" her questions were met with silence. She narrowed her eyes. "Why would he fight with Athos?"

"It was over a woman." Porthos finally said, albeit a bit awkwardly.

She stilled and then her eyes widened. "Milady de Winter?" their quick-shared glance was all the answer she needed. Her heart ached. "This is my fault," she confessed. "I drove him into her arms when—when I..." her lips compressed tightly on the words and she fought back the sob that wanted to bubble up her throat.

"Constance," Aramis murmured gently and stepped forward, putting a comforting and guiding hand on her shoulder. "Why don't you go home?" she suggested. "If we hear anything, we'll let you know. I promise."

Looking no less comforted, Constance slowly left in reluctant and marred acceptance. They watched her leave.

"She'd upset." Porthos noted.

"Of course she is." Aramis said. "She loves him."

"She said she didn't." She countered. "She broke 'is heart."

"And you believe that?" the Spaniard scoffed and shook her head. "We never did get around to that conversation I promised in Ninon's salon, did we?"

Porthos glared at and ignored that last part. "Whether we believe it or not, d'Artagnan does."

She sighed sadly. "You only have to look at them to see that they love each other."

"Sadly, life's more complicated than that." Porthos was reminded what happened between her and Alic; while Aramis remembered her brief time with the Queen, something that was doomed from conception.

"Too true, my sister." Aramis squeezed her shoulder. "Too true."

* * *

Milady sat next to him on the edge of the bed after a moment. She knew she might of had to speak of it, but even after five-years, it was as if done yesterday.

"I was born poor," she started. "I was a thief and a pickpocket." Her green eyes glistened. "But everything changed after I met Athos. I lied about my past to protect our happiness. But her brother, Thomas..." d'Artagnan looked away at this, afraid that his expression might betray him upon her following words. "He always held lust towards me. He found out about Olivia and me. He found out about my past and threatened to tell her—said if I favoured him, he wouldn't tell his sister." Her voice was shaky. "I had no choice. I killed him. But I did it for love." She shook her head. "Athos was blind to the truth. Because she discovered what Thomas had found out about me... that I was once a thief—she decided that I must also be a murderer. And this—this is what she did." She hissed and reached up, snapping her chocker from around her neck, baring the scars from her hanging. d'Artagnan looked at her. "To preserve her honour and status," she spat. She inhaled sharply. "You once said that you would kill the woman who did this to me..."

"You want me to kill Athos?" he gasped in surprise.

"You don't know her as I do." Milady shook her head desperately. "She will never forgive you. In her eyes, us sleeping together—before there was even a connection between you two—is a unforgivable act in her eyes."

"I will not murder my best friend." He declined.

The pounding at her door halted anything to be said. After a pause, Milady rose and retrieved her small pistol from the table. d'Artagnan let out a shaky breath and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. Even though he knew what to expect, it was still something harsh to hear of his friend. If he did not trust Athos absolute, he might have believed Milady and her story.

She opened the door to reveal a grim Treville dressed in his light blue Musketeer uniform cloak thrown over his left shoulder. " _Madame_ ," he said stiffly. "I've come to see d'Artagnan. This won't take long." Milady stepped aside and allowed him entry.

d'Artagnan looked over at the Captain warily. "What do you want, Captain?" The last memory of the previous night that he had, was the shot fired, the searing pain and shock in his sight, stumbling back into Treville's arms, and Aramis' worried face hovering about him. And then nothing.

While it was good to lay eyes on the lad and see for himself and able to report to the others that he seemed to be in fit health—he had a role to play here and damned if he wasn't going to flatten it. Treville took a deep breath. "Athos has made it clear she can never serve at your side again. I cannot allow such dissent within the ranks." He paused. "I'm sorry, but your future lies elsewhere."

"What?" he straightened.

"Resign your commission quickly, and I'll see no dishonour is attached to your name."

"Dishonour? What dishonour?!" he demanded, jumping to his feet. "It was Athos who was dishonourable! No! I don't deserve this. What have I done so wrong to justify this?"

This whole act was a play-by-play upon his worst nightmare, acted live in front of his eyes. If he wasn't a Musketeer, if he lost Athos, Aramis, and Porthos—he would have nothing—he would be nothing. Constance was broken from his heart, forever out of his reach. If all these women were taken out of his life... he would not survive.

"I have not come to judge you." Treville spoke calmly. "I simply have to make a choice. And Athos is the finest soldier in the regiment—I choose her. There's nothing more to be said. I'll await your decision." And he turned his back to a stunned d'Artagnan and left.

Milady said nothing, but watched him closely. His fists clenched at his sides and he gritted his teeth, burning with anger. "You were right about them. I should have listened." He inhaled sharply and rose his chin with decision made. "Be in town square at midday—you'll get what you want. Athos will die at my hand!"

* * *

 _"Charlie." Aramis' hand was a firm anchor on his shoulder as the two of them followed Porthos from the garrison and to the square where Athos had Milady at gunpoint. "You alright?"_

 _"Y-Yeah." d'Artagnan nodded. "I just wasn't expecting this to happen so soon."_

 _"You're alright. We have you, remember? This is just a play-act. You want to abort, just say the word."_

 _"No, no." He shook his head. "This is my idea. Milady needs to be stopped, and the Cardinal put in his proper place. I have this." Most of what was about to be said, was already seared into his brain from the actual event._

 _"Get out of the way!" Porthos hollered, shoving people out of the way and cleared their path into the square._

 _Aramis and d'Artagnan broke apart, but not before the Spaniard gave his should one last squeeze of final encouragement that would have to last until they all saw each other again._

* * *

d'Artagnan had been surprised to find that while he was unconscious through the night, Milady had his doublet cleaned and stitched, along with him. It felt odd, even though he knew it all part of an act.

When he left the apartment, he paused in the street, looking left and right. In truth, he had no idea where he was. He had been too enveloped with the passion of the last scene. But he was pulled to the left, and so he went that way.

He found the venders under the main portico and knew he was on the right track. His heart seized as he spotted the red-haired woman in the crowd. But a moment later, the woman revealed to him in passing was not the woman he desired above all else and yearned deeply for. He gave himself a shake and silently berated himself. It was distraction like that that could wreck this entire operation.

Arm held against his ribs, he headed for the garrison and the friendly faces he would secretly encounter that offered him encouragement.

It was inevitable that the rumour of the rift between the Inseparables flooded through Paris like a sickness. That had been their hope. It would help inflate the lie to appear as the truth. But it put him on edge anyways when he entered the garrison yard through the tunnel and the other Musketeers stopped their business, stared openly and murmured amongst themselves.

Porthos nudged Aramis as she saw the Gascon first and climbed to her feet from the table in the yard at d'Artagnan's slow approach. "Well, well, well." Porthos tore a piece of roll off with her teeth and chewed. "Where 'ave you been?"

"In bed—injured." He returned, hard. "What of you?"

"You weren't alone, I think." Aramis stood as well, mug in hand. "How is Madame de la Chapelle? Or is it Milady de Winter?" She tsked, "Ah, I lose track." Subtly, her sharp eyes tracked his every shift, every breath, eager to get her hands on him and his injury, to finally see for herself after such a long night and morning thinking of the worst outcome.

"I only know of Milady," he said. "And she was well last time I saw her, no thanks to her loving girlfriend."

Athos approached him from behind. "I see you've risen from the grave."

He turned to face her, his lips a sneer. "You've failed to kill me, if that's what you're referring to."

Hard brown met ice blue eyes as they glared at each other. Treville came from his office and to the balcony railing, coming to inspect upon the sudden lack of clashing steel of practising Musketeers and raised voices.

"What are you doing here?" Treville growled. "I thought our talk was clear."

d'Artagnan turned his glare towards the Captain. "I'm still a Musketeer, despite what Athos may wish."

"We'll settle this in private." And he turned back into his office.

d'Artagnan turned and shoved passed Aramis and Porthos, hiding the grimace of pain in the twist of his lips, and started up the stairs. The three women came after him like three hounds after his heels.

* * *

Milady wasn't idle while d'Artagnan left to confront the Inseparables. She wasn't stupid. She knew no plan was one-hundred percent, and so it was always smart to have a back-up to the back-up. Just a little insurance. If she had learned anything, it was to how unpredictable the Musketeers were.

She'd always vowed to herself that once she had left him and this place, she would never return. But things hadn't worked out like when she intended on her arrival in Pinon in time for the mourning of the Comte de la Fère. Thomas had been her original target, if she were to gain his favour, she would become Comtesse de la Fère, but as soon as she had lain her eyes on Olivia, it was her heart that ruled her actions from then on. And it had lead to her downfall.

She paused outside the Crescent, closing her eyes briefly in pause, before she pushed open the door and stepped down into his frequented tavern.

"Tell Sarazin Milady de Winter is here." She issued upon the large man who approached her. The man silently turned and headed towards the back of the tavern to find a man that she despised in the corner booth, a young girl clung drunkenly to his side.

"So, you've finally decided to come crawling back, have you?" Sarazin chuckled, leaning back as he watched her.

"Do I look as if I'm on my knees?"

"Kill her." He ordered the large man looming behind her.

* * *

Athos crossed her arms almost defensively as they stood in Treville's office. "So, you're not dead." It wasn't the first time the woman had said these words to him in greeting, and hopefully, it wouldn't be the last, either.

"And you're not drunk." He returned, but he could see she was paying for her consumption from last night, but his payment was far greater.

There was a moment of silence, and they all laughed in relief at seeing each other again and the converged on each other in the middle of Treville's office in a Inseparable embrace.

It was such a burden off his chest to hold his Angel's close in that brief moment, but it was broken at the unintended hiss of pain escaping his lips at the unintended jolt to his side.

"Careful." He joked, "I'm a wounded man, remember?" but they jumped away from him as if he were a rabid animal.

"Yes." Aramis said in a tense voice. "You are."

His eyes flickered in worry, his hand to his side as he took a step back from her and cleared his throat. "I'm fine. Milady sent for a surgeon. As you can see, I'm fine and fit."

"And as you well know—I'll see for myself."

"I said—"

"d'Artagnan." The strained tone in Athos' voice made him paused and he looked at her. She shook her head and for the first time since he had met her, she looked uncertain. "I am sorry. I did not int—"

"Fine," he turned to Aramis. "I'll let you a free pass this time." He gave Athos a nod that spoke volumes as he was made to sit on the edge of Treville's bed after stripping of his doublet and shirtsleeves.

Aramis tsked already at the sight of his soiled and bled-through bandages, and pulled her kit from where she had stowed it under Treville's bed for just this purpose.

"I'm not sure how I should feel about that." He remarked.

"Try complacent." She unwrapped the bandage.

"Always."

"That's my Charlie." She poured some alcohol onto a cloth and cleaned the blood from the wound and made an unhappy sound in the back of her throat.

"Is it bad?" Athos took a step forward.

"It could have been worse." Aramis allowed as she gentle probbed the wound.

d'Artagnan grimaced. "What happened? I thought you were supposed to shoot me in the arm, Athos."

"A shot in the side is so much more authentic." She said loftily.

He snorted and then winced at the twinge in struck him with. "So you're not claiming you aimed their deliberately?"

"Accuracy after three bottles of wine isn't easy." Each woman thought it better that the Gascon not be made privy of the moments after the shooting.

"Speak for yourself." Porthos muttered, defending her classic move of drunken-melon-head-shooting for entertainment.

Aramis sighed. "This doctor's stitches are mediocre, but they get the job done. I would have liked to have done it myself... it will leave a generous scar. How's the pain?"

"I can manage." He answered.

She gave a small growl, but there wasn't much she could do for him now. She was just happy that he appeared in fit health after such a frightening and suspenseful night. She wrapped a fresh bandage around the wound. It had been close, too close for her own comfort, but she thought it best to keep that part to herself concerning all parties.

"So, three bottles?" he inquired, returning his shirtsleeves and doublet to their proper place. "Couldn't you have faked it?"

"Ann—Milady knows me too well." Athos explained. "She would have seen through it otherwise."

"Then, I guess it's a good thing how well you can handle your drink."

"d'Artagnan," Treville drew their attention back to the mission on-hand. If they spent too long in the office, it might seem suspicious. "Does Milady believe we have abandoned you?"

"She's very convincing," he admitted and Athos quickly hid the pain from her eyes. "But I trust you over her—always. But I think so, there's just a tiny detail I need to convince her."

"What's that?" Athos asked.

"Nothing too difficult, I'm sure." He paused. "I just need to kill you." He smiled.

"Small, huh?"

He stood. "Worried? With the tricks we've been pulling out of our asses lately?"

Porthos laughed. "If this whole Musketeer thing doesn't work out, we should form our own little play group!"

"Ah, all the adoring fans! The women and the men!" Aramis nodded. "It's not something I would be against."

* * *

Milady sat across from Sarazin, his man dead behind her on the floor. He didn't seem upset by it, in fact, when she'd shot the man, he'd laughed. He sent his girl Celine for more wine and she stumbled drunkenly away.

"Was I ever like that?"

"You? Oh, no, no." He shook his head. "You were a different class. Oh, you broke my heart when you left me, you know."

"Well, it's difficult when you have no heart to break." She said. "I need insurance, Sarazin, in case my plans don't work out. Will you help me kill these Musketeers or not?"

"You know, I made you into the greatest thief this city has ever seen." He tapped the table as he leaned forward. "I invested a lot of time and a lot of money into you. And you ran way from me and you hid behind the Cardinal's skirts. And now you owe me, remember?"

"I can pay."

"Really? I wonder."

"100 _livres_."

"Oh, please." He scoffed.

"200?"

"No, I think not. When the job is done, you will come back and you will work for me."

This time, it was her turn to scoff. "Oh, not a chance. I've outgrown you."

"Oh, well, you may have slightly nicer clothes, but underneath them, there still that... that whiff of the cheap little thief that I once knew. And anyways, you wouldn't be here unless you were desperate." Celine returned with the bottle of wine. She dolled it out, before sitting back next to Sarazin and taking a long dreg from the bottle. "So, you just say the word. And all my resources are yours." Her silence was all the answer he needed. "Fabulous. So, how exactly do you want these Musketeers to die?"

She smiled. As soon as Athos and her friends were dead, she would slit Sarazin's throat ear from ear and finally, all anchors to her past would be gone and she'd be free for the first time in her life.

There was just one more piece to her plan—a certain red-head.

* * *

It was in the square, at noon, just as d'Artagnan had promised. He thought back to what Porthos had said about them forming a performance group, and couldn't help but wonder the truth in it for what they were about to pull off. Athos, Aramis, and Porthos were having a drink outside the portico, surrounding a barrel-made-table. Milady stuck to the shadows behind one of the pillars, and unnoticed in the crowd, was Celine.

"Athos." He called.

They three abandoned their drinks and stepped away.

"What do you want?" Athos sneered.

"An apology for the way you treated me."

"Or what?" she challenged.

"Or..." d'Artagnan approached, taking the glove from his left hand finger by finger. "We'll settle this like... gentlemen." She laughed, until he slapped her harshly across the face with his glove.

Anger lit Athos' blue eyes and she went for him, but Aramis grabbed her, and Porthos held d'Artagnan off from any aggressive move.

"I know what you did to her, Athos. I know your true character. You disgust me!" he shoved Porthos back. "You'll hear from my seconds!"

"What seconds?" Athos said harshly. "You have no one left at your side. You're all alone, d'Artagnan. You have no one."

"This must be done properly." Aramis hissed, still holding the woman. "According to the rules!"

d'Artagnan turned and started to leave.

"Damn the rules." Athos swore, shoved Aramis from her and pulled her pistol. She forced her hand to steady, her shot would hit its intended target this time.

"d'Artagnan!" Porthos screamed a warning, but Athos already pulled the trigger.

The ball hit into the stall post that d'Artagnan had just passed and he dropped into a crouch with his hands over his head. A woman screamed and people scattered at yet another fight between the Musketeers erupted, the same from last night no less. Before anyone could react, d'Artagnan spun around on his heels, his pistol drawn—and he fired.

Athos grunted and stumbled back a step, much as d'Artagnan had done the night before, and then collapsed to the ground unmoving. Aramis and Porthos ran to the woman who played dead, surrounding her, blocking her from immediate sight. d'Artagnan started to back away.

Porthos quickly retrieved the bladder from her boot and squeezed the blood onto Athos' torso, smearing it with gloved hands. "She'd dead!" she cried out.

"Murderer!" Aramis leapt to her feet, her pistol drawn. "Come back, you coward!" But he'd shoved himself into the crowd, blocking himself with innocent bodies and Aramis was forced to hold her fire.

Milady was shaking, overwhelmed by something as she looked across into the crowd and gave Celine the signal.

* * *

Constance was in the Market, trying to distract herself from her worry of d'Artagnan, but was doing a poor job of it, oblivious of what had just happened in the square, and the shadowy intentions marked to her.

" _Madame_ Bonacieux!" Celine cried, running to her. " _Madame_ Bonacieux! Come quickly. d'Artagnan just shot Athos. He's calling for you. He needs help."

"Where is he?" she gasped.

"Follow me. Quickly!" Celine turned and fled, and without a moments hesitation, Constance ran after her. As soon as she heard d'Artagnan's name, the decision had been made, it was no matter that she had never seen this girl before.

* * *

Unlike last time, there was no worry for injury. Athos' gun had a ball, but d'Artagnan's gun had been loaded with just the powder. The rest had all been acting. Now, it was Aramis and Porthos who had to convince the world of Athos' killing. But just the act of shooting his friend made him sick, what Athos must have felt after actually shooting him, watching his bleed and pass out—her will was strong if she played through it. And now it was his turn.

"I thought I would feel something more than this." Milady murmured, her back to him as she stared out the window of her apartment at the inn. "This emptiness. It's odd. I loved her once." She looked over her shoulder to the pacing man. "Are you sure you killed her?"

d'Artagnan gave a bitter laugh. "Am I sure?" he scoffed and faced her. "It's pointless for regrets now. Is that what you're feeling?"

"This is all I've dreamed of for years." She said. "I thought you were like Athos. But I was wrong." She slowly started towards him. "She had greatness in her. _She_ would not be frightened."

"Frightened? I'm not frightened. No," he shook his head. "It is not _I_."

She narrowed her green eyes. "What did you say?"

He stepped to her. "How many times—how many chances did you have to kill her yourself? Yet every time, you let it slip through your fingers."

"You don't get to speak to me of loosed chances!" she spat in fury. "You have no idea the hell Athos had strung me through, all I have slogged through in this pit to get to this moment. She is finally from this world!"

" _I_ killed Athos! Me!" he thumped his chest. "I put a bullet in her chest. Aramis and Porthos will never forgive this. They'll want revenge. My life is in ruins, I have nothing left."

"You have me." And she grabbed his doublet and crushed their lips together. He could feel her tongue, like the sting of poison against his own. She pulled back, her brows furrowed. "There's someone else, isn't there?"

"I just killed a woman." He defended. "It tends to dampen the mood, don't you think?"

"Not in my experience." She released him. "You yet love the draper's wife." It wasn't a question.

"Constance means nothing to me." His voice was hard and tight.

"Mm." She continued to watch him.

"I killed Athos for you. You owe me." He pointed out, his arms crossed over his chest, pulling at the surgeon's stitches. "There's only one man who can help me stay alive now."

"I see." She murmured and looked at him with calculating green eyes. Maybe there was still yet some more use she could get out of him. She didn't see the harm in bringing him to the Cardinal. "Perhaps you're not Athos, but with the Cardinal's help, I can still make _something_ of you." She turned from him.

"Your confidence and concern is warming." He said sarcastically.

"If that's what you want, then perhaps you should have stayed with the draper's wife." She purred over her shoulder. "But then, she was at least smart enough to see the same thing, wasn't she?" She left through the door with a smirk. "He'll be expecting us by now."

d'Artagnan gritted his teeth at the still painful truth of it. Even as his heart ached for the woman, she did not want him. He loved her still, and didn't believe he could love another like her. He wanted to kill Milady then, and it took a minute for reason to override the passion. His side throbbed as he breathed heavily, and followed after the deadly woman.

But this time, it was _her_ caught in _their_ web—not the other way around... or so they believed.

* * *

Constance followed Celine into a cellar down a short set of steps. "What's going on? Where is he?" she looked around to see no sign of d'Artagnan. Her uneasy feeling was too slow in coming, to realize just how unstable this situation was.

"Unfortunately..." Sarazin stepped from the dark shadows, his voice hoarse. "d'Artagnan is unable to attend. He did, however, send me to look after you." He smiled.

"Who're you?" she questioned suspiciously, only to whip around at the lock clicking into place and Celine putting a key around her neck.

* * *

d'Artagnan stood center of the Cardinal's vast office, Milady off to his right, and the two Red Guards an ever presence at his back.

"Musketeers slaughtering each other is the public square?" Richelieu appeared shocked, but inside he was filled with glee. It was like he wish list was taking care of itself. "Something must be done."

"Aramis and Porthos will be looking for me." d'Artagnan interrupted through gritted teeth. "I _need_ your protection."

"Protection?" he laughed. "A Musketeer is asking me for protection?"

"That won't be a problem soon enough." He growled.

"Ah, how disappointed you must be, d'Artagnan." He put salt in open-wounds, "Three months and your commission is already at an end. How sad..."

"And I'm coming to you now." He pleaded.

"The penalty for duelling is death." The Cardinal reminded. He gestured to his two Red Guards. "You'll be hanged at dawn." He turned and headed behind his desk. "Two dead Musketeers for the price of one, an excellent bargain."

d'Artagnan moved fast. He gripped his _main gauche_ from its holster at the small of his back and grabbed Milady, much as Athos had done the previous night, putting the blade at her throat. The Red Guards drew their swords at his back.

"Touch me and she dies!" he screamed.

Richelieu waved his hand in unconcern as he sat in his chair. "Do try not to get blood everywhere."

"He's testing you, d'Artagnan." Milady said tightly.

"Shut up." He hissed, shifting them forward. Her jasmine perfume tickled at the back of his throat.

"I can assure, I'm not." He said. "There was a time where you might have been useful to me, but that time has passed. What service can you possible offer me now?"

"I killed Athos! Something both you and Milady have failed again and again to do."

"Mm." His lips tightened. "Is that all? You've already done the deed—you're finished now."

"Not quite." And the shark grin that d'Artagnan flashed him made the Cardinal pause. "You know Treville has a letter signed by the assassin, Gallagher? He gave it to us before he died, something about not wanting to be burdened by sins in his death. You know how it is." He shrugged. "It's implicated you in the attempt to murder the Queen. I can get it for you."

Richelieu made a tight gesture and his Red Guards back off. After a moment, d'Artagnan took the blade away Milady's neck and pushed her away. She glared at him, adjusting the askewed chocker around her neck.

He shrugged in response, putting his dagger away. "Dog eat dog."

She smiled at him. He had no idea the game he was playing. He was a child, playing at a man.

* * *

Constance found her ankles and wrists bound in rope and pushed to the floor in front of the pillar in the center of the cellar. She glared at her captor as he sat on a small box in front of her. His little girl toy in his lap with a bottle of wine to her lips like a baby nursing—Constance could swear she was no more than seventeen!

She didn't know who these people were, but they clearly knew enough of her to lure her without issue into seclusion. And so she attempted to get more information from the man. "If it's ransom your after, my husband isn't a wealthy man."

"Hmm. I'm afraid you're involved in a much bigger game, Constance." He murmured, and Celine briefly removed the bottle from her own lips and put it to his. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "And Celine here... will tend to your every need."

"I'm not frightened of you."

"You're uncommonly braze for a woman, aren't you?" he grinned as he eyed her.

"Untie these ropes and I'll show you what a woman can do." She spat.

Sarazin scoffed and pushed Celine from his lap before he stood and went to kneel in front of her. "You know something?" he touched her cheek and she flicked the touch away with her bound wrists. "Oh." He seemed to like that. "You know something?" he repeated and grabbed her chin harshly with bruising force and pulled her face close. His breath was hot and sour. "I am going to thoroughly enjoy killing you in a few hours." He chuckled. "Let's see who's brave, then, eh?" he stood and headed for the door.

"What do you want from me?" she screamed at him.

"Oh!" he laughed as he left. "You'll see—in time."

Constance silently watched as Celine leaned against the box he had vacate and gulped more wine. The woman fought back the tears of confusion and fear. Not fear for herself, but for d'Artagnan, because she was sure he was twisted deeply into whatever this man's dark plot was. She had to get out of here and find him before it was too late. But for now, all she could do was wait.

* * *

"Why hasn't Treville produced it already?" the Cardinal questioned.

"He's waiting to condemn you at Mellendorf's trial—in front of the King." He explained. "That way, no-one can suppress the evidence."

Richelieu turned a hard grey stare on Milady. "Tell me you weren't foolish enough to mention my name to Gallagher." Her eyes flickered away from his awkwardly. He suppressed a growl and turned back to the Gascon. "How would you obtain this?"

d'Artagnan shot a glance at Milady before he stepped closer to the Cardinal's desk, leaning forwards. "Use me as bait. Tell Aramis and Porthos you'll have me over in exchange for the letter."

"Why should I do that when their intention is to destroy me?" he steepled his fingers.

"No no no." He waved his hand. "This is personal now. I killed their friend. Their code of honour demands my death. Believe me. I know how they think." He stepped back.

"What about Treville?" he questioned. "He would never allow it."

"Treville would never need to know. Aramis knows where the letter is kept."

Richelieu's gaze flickered to Milady. "Is he right about them?"

"They loved Athos. They would to anything to avenge her death."

He turned his gaze back onto the Gascon. "And what do you want in return?"

"The same thing you offered me before," he replied. "Your guarantee of my safety and commission in the Red Guards." It was an unsaid truth that Aramis and Porthos would ever be seen after this secret meeting. Hell, d'Artagnan might even pull the trigger himself. Why not? He'd already murdered Athos—he had to fight the laughter that bubbled in his chest at the completely absurd line-of-thought.

After a moment, the Cardinal gestured his Guard forward and conversed with the man. "Send a message to the Musketeer, Aramis. Tell her if she wants d'Artagnan, to bring Gallagher's letter to the Old Seminary at the Place mon Pere at noon." The Red Guard nodded and left to give word of the message.

d'Artagnan nodded to the Cardinal, his left thumb hooked into his belt, looking confident and satisfied, all the while, his arm was gave a subtle pressure against his injured side. It was finally about to be the star-attraction of their play-act.

* * *

Constance's opportunity came when, after consuming the entire bottle of wine, Celine was now slumped against the box, lulling. Until finally, blessedly, the girl passed out. Constance desperately watched her grip around the bottle neck in her lap slowly grow lax and could have cheered as it rolled from her lap, and a short distance from her and to Constance, before it went in a half-circle and halted.

Constance watched the girl a moment longer to make she truly did sleep, before she shifted onto her knees and reached for the bottle with bound hands. She carefully wrapped the bottle with a towel that had been her only comfort on the hard cement, and held her breath as she gave the bottle a firm whack against the side of the pillar. She carefully watched Celine at the loud pop, but the girl only murmured and shifted.

Constance dumped the contents onto the floor and shifted through the broken glass for a big enough piece for her to hold. Glass held carefully, she started to saw the rope that bound her legs.

* * *

 _d'Artagnan let out another frustrated sigh, shooting another glance over at Athos at the front of the Queen's escort from the convent back to Paris. They were able to freshen their horses by replacing out the worn with Gallagher's men's' mounts. As well as using a couple to carry their supplies and the claimed weapons from the dead. The rest of the horses were left to the nuns, to either keep or sell at their choosing._

 _For the one break that the escort took on the road, d'Artagnan dismounted and headed straight for Athos, but at the last moment veered off to assist Porthos with the horses. He had chickened out, in other words. They'd made it to Paris, unmolested and the Queen was reunited with the King._

 _The Musketeers headed back to the garrison and Treville bid them into his office. He sat behind his desk, and the Inseparables took up various positions around the room. Athos by the back wall, by the door to the armoury. Porthos stood in front of his documents cabinet. Aramis leaned against the partition at the foot of the Captain's bunk. And d'Artagnan stood to her left._

 _"Athos?" Treville leaned carefully back in his chair, careful of his still healing collarbone. "You know this assassin?" he got the ball rolling. The others all turned to look at her, d'Artagnan albeit nervously._

 _Athos was quiet for a long driving moment. "Her name is... Anne. We loved each other, we were happy..." her eyes flickered to d'Artagnan. "Until she killed my brother." d'Artagnan's breath caught in his throat. This could not be happening. "Thomas found out that she wasn't who or what she claimed to be_ — _found out about us. She killed him to keep him quiet and claimed he forced himself onto her. And... I ordered her to the noose. I couldn't watch, I left before it was over. I thought her dead for the longest time_ — _but she'd seduced her executioner and he cut her free." She didn't think it relevant to mention about Milady's attempt back at the chateau and was thankful when d'Artagnan didn't say anything. She just wanted to say what needed to be revealed and hopefully not speak on it again. "For the last six-years, she's been plotting and working for the Cardinal. Working to destroy the Musketeers."_

 _"The same woman who was at Ninon's trial," Aramis realized. "Madame de la Chapelle."_

 _Athos nodded. "All Anne said in court were lies so the Cardinal could take Ninon's money and property_ — _he got that in the end, but on the price that she lived."_

 _d'Artagnan made a strained sound in the back of his throat. Aramis looked over at him in concern, fingers lightly touching his right shoulder. "You okay, Charlie?"_

 _He jolted at the touch. "Unh..."_

 _"d'Artagnan?" Athos questioned._

 _"I..." He gulped and straightened. No matter what happened now, he had to tell the woman. She deserved to know the truth and he deserved whatever she gave him. "I know this assassin, as well."_

 _Athos visibly tensed._

 _"You do?" Porthos asked._

 _d'Artagnan nodded with compressed lips. "She's called Milady de Winter now. We've met on several occasions_ — _more, she's tracked me down. She was the one who killed those two Red Guards when he were trying to get the plan for the gunpowder out of Vadim. She was my patron for the competition. The first time we met, was my first night in Paris. She was at the same inn with another man." Athos' fists clenched slowly and tightly, she could see clearly where this was going. She knew Anne too well, not to. "We_ — _we slept together. She murdered the man she had been with beforehand and planted the weapon on me when before she disappeared in the morning."_

 _"You slept with 'er?" Porthos repeated, incredulous. d'Artagnan cringed and Athos flinched_ — _like it needed to be said again. She grimaced herself as Aramis sent her a look._

 _d'Artagnan took a step forward, pleadingly. "Athos, I_ —"

 _"You fool!" she screamed. "What were you thinking?"_

 _What he was expecting, with the fury glowing in the woman's blue eyes, was to be struck. But she seemed to change her course at the last moment and shoved him instead._

 _Athos turned her back to the room, her chest heaving as she breathed heavily._

 _He tumbled backwards, twisting around to try and catch himself, but he wasn't fast enough. The edge of Treville's desk squarely caught him on his injured left arm. Tearing as he dropped to the floor in a, albeit in a crumple. The forced of his propulsion nearly throwing the desk back onto the Captain, who leapt to his feet and back. He made a deep and high strangled sound as he clamped his jaw shut to keep from crying out._

 _"Charlie!" Aramis knelt next to him. "Charlie," she helped the Gascon sit and had to physically pry his hand from around his arm. She found it slick with blood. She cursed. "The damn thing's torn_ —the _whole damn thing! Porthos, get my kit!" Aramis barked, and with a nod, the tall woman rushed to do just that. "Come on," she moved him over to the edge of Treville's bunk. "Athos, what the hell?" she growled._

 _"No, no." d'Artagnan shook his head as Aramis helped him with his doublet and shirtsleeves. "I deserved that," he voice shook lightly. Treville handed Aramis a clean handkerchief from his desk, and the Gascon gritted his teeth as she pressed it against the bleeding graze, now torn and ragged. "I_ —"

 _"Here!" Porthos ran in with Aramis' kit, breathless and set in on the floor at the woman's feet._

 _"Thanks. Hold that." She instructed him and he replaced her hand over the cloth with his own. She opened it and instantly set to work. Cleaning the wound, stopping the bleeding and started to put a few precarious stitches in the torn flesh._

 _d'Artagnan continued to plead with the woman's turned back, even as he flinch. "I didn't know, Athos. I swear that I didn't!"_

 _"I know," Athos said, but too softly for him to hear._

 _It hadn't been anger that made her react as she did. At least, not anger towards d'Artagnan. What she felt for him, was a complete fear. How many times had he met with Anne? How many times did his life hang in the balance. If Anne_ — _Milady_ — _had decided to take revenge on her that way, none of them would even have known until it was too late and their world forever torn apart._

 _She could not lose another brother, she had hardly survived Thomas. And she knew she would not be able to survive d'Artagnan._

 _"Please!" his voice broke. "To betray my sister like this... how can I call myself a Musketeer?"_

 _Athos' eyes widened at this and she spun around. "Say no such things!" her voice was gruff with vehemence and his own tear-clouded eyes widened. "I am not_ angry _with_ you _, but_ myself _."_

 _"You've done nothing wrong." He swore._

 _Aramis tied the bandage off._

 _"But, I have." She sighed and looked at each of them. "I was ashamed of my past, guilty. I fell for a pretty face and it got my brother killed."_

 _"You can't blame yourself for a mistake anyone could 'ave made." Porthos told her._

 _"A mistake that caused my brother's life!" she shouted and ran a hand roughly through her hair, taking a deep breath to calm herself. "It will be something that I will never be able to change, but I'll be damned if I'm going to lose another brother!"_

 _It was so silent, that every soft breath could be heard, every creak of soft leather, ever material shift._

* * *

As soon as Constance cut the rope free from her ankles, she stood and loomed over Celine. She needed that key if she was to get out of here. Her wrists could wait. She reached forward and hooked the key out from between the girl's cleavage and started to lift it from around her head. Her plan was foiled as the key-string caught in the girl's hair.

Celine woke and grabbed for it sloppily. Constance pulled away, ripping the key from the girl's hair and turning towards the door. Celine grabbed her skirts, halting her, and Constance turned. With a cry, the red-haired woman struck the girl in the face, and kicked her in the chest, throwing her back—and into the bed of broken glass.

Celine screamed a horrible sound. "My face!"

Constance flinched but ran up the short stairs and unlocked the door. She was free, she was—Milady and Sarazin stood in her path. She wasn't expecting or prepared for the punch that Milady gave her, sending her tumbling down the stairs, senseless.

"Dear God." She sneered at Sarazin. "Do I have to do everything myself?"

* * *

Aramis removed her hat as she and Porthos stepped into the tavern that was less frequented by the Musketeers, so Athos would be less recognizable. Though a stranger wouldn't recognize her—a shapeless cloak covering any feminine curve she possessed, and a large-brimmed, unfamiliar hat borrowed from one of the men pulled low, shadowed her face, her hair tucked up out of view.

The pair claimed the table immediately at the woman's back, and a wench came with their drinks.

"How was my funeral?" the dead woman asked.

Porthos cleared her throat. "The Captain had some very nice things to say 'bout you."

Aramis smiled. "Porthos even shed a few tears."

"Oi! It was a very emotional time." The tall woman protested. "I just lost a friend. It's healthy to shed a few tears now an' again!"

"I'm touched, Porthos. I'm sorry to have missed it." Athos murmured. "But you do realize I'm not dead,"

Aramis chuckled and Porthos glowered as she buried herself for a moment in her cup. "Shut up! Stop laughin' at me."

"Was the funeral really necessary?" Athos asked.

Aramis shrugged. "You never know. It was better to keep up the appearance of you death in case Milady decided to drop in for a look."

"Like a vulture." Porthos muttered.

"Any news from d'Artagnan?" Athos took drink from her own cup.

"Not since he killed you." The markswoman answered. "That was a rather convincing dive, by the way."

"Thanks. I try."

"Where is she?" Bonacieux appeared unexpectedly, nearly startling the three Musketeers. "Is he hiding her somewhere? I know what you Musketeers are like."

"What _are_ you talking about, _Monsieur_." Aramis asked, finding her voice. Bonacieux was the last person any of them wanted to run into. Athos was tense like a drawstring.

" _Madame_ Bonacieux left my house yesterday afternoon. I know she's eloped with that wretch, d'Artagnan. Well, I'll challenge him. I have no choice."

"Calm down." Porthos stood. "Right. Tell us exactly what 'appened."

"I already have. She disappeared and hasn't returned."

"Well, she'd not with d'Artagnan," Aramis remarked. "I can assure you that at least."

"A respectable woman doesn't just disappear in broad daylight." he looked between them when no answer was coming. "For goodness sake!" he turned on his heel and left as abruptly as he had come in a huff.

* * *

Celine pushed to her feet, sobbing as she stumbled towards the returned Sarazin. Her face was speckled with cuts from the smaller shards, but there was a long and deep gash on her cheekbone. He saw the state of her and grabbed her chin, inspecting the girl's face harshly.

"Oh, dear. Well, that's going to leave a permanent mark, isn't it? You do realize you're never going to be beautiful again, don't you? Well, I suppose someone might want you. As long as they don't look too close." He released her chin and grabbed the back of her neck, thrusting her towards the door. "Now leave."

"Please, Sarazin. I love you!" she cried.

"Well, love doesn't pay the bills, does it?" he said harshly. "Get out!"

Sobbing, she ran.

"You're heartless." Milady commented.

"What use is a courtesan with a scar on her face?" He pointed at Constance, "And you! I like her! You cost me!"

Constance panted. "Whatever have I done to you to deserve this?"

"My, self-important, aren't we?" Milady leaned against the crates the other woman was slumped against. She knelt in front of the woman. "You're just a prop, dear."

"Pro—then wh—d'Artagnan!" she realized and pushed herself up straighter. "Why? Because he refused your advances?"

"He thought me the fool, and he'll pay the price."

"You are the fool!" Constance spat. "If you think d'Artagnan will fall for—" She flinched as Milady backhanded her.

"He loves you. I've seen it in his eyes. I've felt it in his lips when I kissed him. You broke his heart, you think you saved him? Well, you didn't. He's going to try to save you—and it's going to kill him."

"My friends will be looking for me—you won't get away with this!"

"Your _friends_ are tearing themselves apart." She laughed. "Athos is dead, murdered by your beloved d'Artagnan. Aramis and Porthos are out for his blood—so maybe he won't even know that you've been taken. And you'll just disappear like smoke."

"I knew you were evil." Constance shouted. "From the first moment I saw you—I _knew_."

Milady stood and loomed over the woman. "Yet, you're the one that drove him right into my arms." She sighed. "You have such spirit. I understand what d'Artagnan sees in you—what a shame it must end like this."

* * *

Porthos looked at the other two women in worry as she sat back down. "If Constance 'as been missin' all night, she might be in danger."

Athos finally faced them for the first time since they arrived, shifting her chair around. "d'Artagnan cannot know about this. Not now. It will only distract him."

Aramis shook her head. "You know he loves her."

"All the more reason to keep it from him." Her words sounded cold and unfeeling, but Aramis and Porthos knew it was quite the opposite. "One lapse in concentration might cost him his life."

"What about her?" the Spaniard wondered softly. If Constance was killed, d'Artagnan would be a broken man, unfixable.

"Aramis?" a man entered the tavern and the markswoman stood. The man simply handed her a sealed note and left.

Brows furrowed, Aramis opened it and read. "The Cardinal's got d'Artagnan. He will hand him over in exchange for Gallagher's letter." She handed the note to Porthos and looked to Athos. "Show time. This'll be our make it or break it moment." She set her hat firmly on her head.

"Let's try not t' break it." Porthos agreed, standing.

"Don't get each other killed." Athos advised and wished them luck before the pair headed off. She sighed as she watched them leave. She hated being stuck on the sidelines, unable to be present and assist her sisters and brother if something were to go amiss.

But it wouldn't, she swore, because they knew what they were doing. This had to play out, this had to work.

* * *

Aramis and Porthos rode to Louvre, dismounting and entering the old seminary, but not before they'd made a detour to talk with Treville, and not before he made a visit to Her Majesty. It was easy to find their way, the Red Guard's lined like bread crumbs right to the Cardinal and d'Artagnan.

"You murderer!" Porthos bellowed upon seeing the Gascon.

"It was a duel!" d'Artagnan shouted back, and the Red Guards on either side of him behind the Cardinal in the hall, held him fast. "Fair game—she fired first."

The two women shoved some Guards out of their way and faced the Cardinal. "You shot him in cold blood!" Aramis pointed accusatory over Richelieu's shoulder.

"Entertaining as this is," Richelieu drawled. "Perhaps we should get to business. Just give me the letter, then you can do what you want with d'Artagnan."

"What!" d'Artagnan growled. "You promised me protection! Retribution!" He was ignored.

Aramis reached inside her frock and took out the Gallagher letter, holding it up in her fingertips. Richelieu reached for it, but Porthos snatched it up faster.

"You'd murder the Queen, just to see one of your favourites on th' throne? Hmm? Haven't got enough power already?"

"This was never about power." He reached for it again.

But Aramis snatched it back. "Of course it was. You simply want your own puppet at the King's Right Hand."

"You understand nothing." He reached again for the note, tiredly like he knew exactly what was going to happen.

Porthos reclaimed it. "Why don't you explain it to us, then?"

The Cardinal reached for it again, but Aramis stole the note one last time and said to the woman even as she looked at the man, "He can't speak because he's too ashamed."

Richelieu scoffed at them and turned his back. He didn't have to listen to this, he could just have them killed. But Porthos' chuckle had him turning back in announcement instead.

"The Queen is barren." He snapped through gritted teeth. "If the King dies without an heir, France will be plunged back into civil war. Is one woman's life worth sacrificing to avoid such a catastrophe? I think it is. I ordered her death because I alone will face the truth that no one can stomach. Give me the letter."

"You heartless bastard." Aramis called him, finally letting him take the letter.

d'Artagnan got a first-row seat as the Cardinal opened the note and realized his downfall. He grinned at the rage on the man's face—and the fear. The Gascon new that if Richelieu tried to take them out, though the Musketeers were out-numbered, he could easily take care of the two Red Guards on either side of him.

"How very cunning," he crumpled the blank piece of paper and threw it to the floor. "You tricked me."

"Into making a full confession," Aramis' voice was pleased. "Yes."

Richelieu straightened and gave a smile of his own as he turned to the two women. "And what use is your confession? The word of lowly Musketeers against the First Minister of France?" he laughed. "Who do you think the King will believe? If you even make it out of this hall..."

"The King might not believe them, Cardinal," Queen Anne's voice rang clear through the hall as her and Captain Treville made their entry. They all bowed as she walked towards them, but Richelieu, realizing the real trouble he was in, got down on his knees and prostrated himself to her. She stopped, Aramis and Porthos at either of her shoulders, Treville behind Porthos' and d'Artagnan moving behind Aramis'. "But he most certainly will believe mine."

"Hail, Holy Queen. Mother of Mercy." He raised his head. "What I did, I did solely for the interests of France."

She look down at him. "It is only because I believe you are sincere in your devotion to the country that I've decided to spare your life. France needs you and the King loves you. Your treachery would break his heart." She took a step closer, her voice low. "If you ever fail in your duty again, I will not be so lenient. My influence with the King is stronger than you can possibly imagine. You have been warned, Cardinal. " And she turned and left, as regally and as tall as she had come. She had been in clue of the entire situation since the ride home from the assassination attempt at the convent.

After a moment, Richelieu stood to face a row of Musketeers. He wasn't stupid, though the Queen had let him be, he still had them to deal with. His eyes landed on d'Artagnan and a wariness hit him.

"Athos was your friend." He reminded the others. "Are you so ready to forgive him for murder?"

"It is sad," Porthos shared a look with Aramis. "But we can always find new friends." She shrugged.

"And to be honest, she was a little moody." Aramis agreed. "You've met her, right?"

"Mmm." All the others hummed in agreement and turned to stare eerily at the Cardinal.

"Of course," the Cardinal sighed. "She'd not really dead, is she? I never thought I would meet liars to rival myself—and naturally they're all Musketeers." He sneered. And gave a single clap. "I commend you for commitment in seeing this through. Allowing yourself to get shot? You had me convinced. I really should have tried harder to get you onto the Red Guards."

"Thanks," d'Artagnan said sarcastically. "But I'll take getting shot over that any day."

"Too bad." He said. "But perhaps one day..." he promised.

"There's just one more thing before we let you go, Cardinal..." he stepped forward. "We want Milady."

"She too has to account for her crimes." Treville spoke for the first time.

Richelieu shrugged. "She's yours. She has failed me too many times lately to be of use anymore." He did tell her it was her head on the chopping block before it was his. If she hadn't failed in killing the Musketeers like she was supposed to, things would have turned out differently.

* * *

"What's wrong with you two?" d'Artagnan asked as they dismounted in the garrison yard and Jacques the stable boy took their mounts. "I thought you'd be more happy that I was back in your arms. Or do I just think you love me more than you really do?" he joked. Almost three days he had been absent their company.

"We love you just fine, Charlie." That hadn't been exactly the reaction he was expecting.

"What's up guys?" he started for the table and food. He hadn't eaten all day.

"Athos said not to say anythin'," Porthos started and d'Artagnan groaned.

"That can't be good." He said. "So how bad are we talking?" he took some cold cuts and bread, taking a bite. He turned, his mouth full when they didn't say anything. "Well?"

In truth, the pair had been dreading this moment, and had argued all morning for who would tell him about Constance. And just now had done a lightening around of stone/parchment/shears.

"While we were waiting this morning," Aramis said slowly, "Bonacieux cornered us and ranted about your stealing Constance from him."

"What? I haven't seen Constance in months..."

Aramis' gaze flickered to Porthos' briefly. "He said that Constance had left for Market yesterday, but she never came home that night and has been missing."

"Missing..." he repeated, his knuckles turned white as his grip continued to tighten on the bread. "Why wasn't I told of this earlier?" he demanded.

"There wasn't a chance," Porthos said gently. "We'd just been told right before we got your letter for the meetin' with the Cardinal, there was no other chance."

"You could have found me by letter!" he shouted and started to pace in front of the pair, his food forgotten just like his appetite.

Aramis watched him worriedly. "Perhaps we're worrying about nothing."

"Constance would not just disappear." He protested with a shake of his head. "Something's happened to her." He was sure of it, he knew it in his gut.

"She might be home already, safe and sound."

"And what if she isn't?" he stepped forward intensely.

"Look," Porthos dropped a hand on his tense shoulder. "I'm sure she's fine. Alright? She came to the garrison when she 'eard you were injured. And you could see she was upset."

That made him pause. "She... she did?"

Aramis' hand found his other shoulder. "You only have to look at her face to see she adores you. And the same is for you."

d'Artangna opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Treville returned from the Cardinal. "Milady is on her way. She's taken the bait."

Aramis squeezed his shoulder. "We'll deal with Milady, and then we'll find Constance."

The two men and women mounted up and left the garrison. Soon, in hardly half-an-hour, this whole nightmare was going to be over. They would have Milady in custody and Athos risen from the dead.

* * *

 _"Milady and the Cardinal need to be stopped," d'Artagnan stood firmly, bare-chested and looked to Athos. "So what are we going to do about it?"_

 _"Stop it." She said._

 _"Damn right!" Porthos agreed. "But 'ow?"_

 _Aramis wiped the blood from her hands and stood next to him. "The Cardinal has been fighting from the shadows for years," she shook her head. "We'll never be able to expose him and Milady while they're still in the shade."_

 _"What if we were too?" d'Artagnan voiced slowly and gave a shark-grin as it came to him. "Why not play them at their own game?"_

 _Slowly, the candles lit behind their eyes, but Athos went straight out with a flat, "No."_

 _"What? You haven't even heard the plan yet."_

 _"Oh, you have a plan, do you?" she crossed her arms over her chest and quirked a brow. "What rotten fruit is about to drop on our heads?"_

 _"Don't you know me, Athos?" he scoffed cockily. "When have my plans never come to fruition?"_

 _Her expression was deadpanned. "Should I remind you of_ —"

" _That was not my fault!"_

 _"Oh!" Porthos held up her finger. "What 'bout when you_ —"

 _"That skunk was an unforeseen variable_ — _and I paid for that. You burned my clothes, remember?"_

 _"My turn." Aramis grinned. "The first day we met_ —"

" _We agreed to never mention that!"_

 _The three women chuckled. "Everyone in the 'ole garrison already 'as 'eard some version of it."_

 _"That's because you keep mentioning it." He grumbled._

 _Aramis patted his uninjured shoulder. "A good story never gets old_ — _and that's one of the best."_

 _"You guys need to get some new material!" he complained as he pulled his shirtsleeves over his head._

 _Treville smiled. "You only stop when it's not funny anymore," Treville said, leaning on the edge of his desk. "So you're out of luck on that, son. Perhaps if you don't mistake_ coin _for a coin."_

 _He looked at the Captain open-mouthed as the others laughed. "That was a reasonable mistake!"_

* * *

The four Musketeers rode down the road, lined with trees. It was the very same where they had set up the fake duel to get d'Artagnan arrested and close to the criminal Vadim. That had been another act.

They reined in and Milady turned towards them, her jaw tightening.

"The Cardinal was unavoidably detained." Treville informed her.

"So, he had finally betrayed me? I suppose it was bound to happen." She exhaled tightly. "Well done, d'Artagnan. But it changes nothing. I have still won—Athos is dead." They all smiled at this, not such a reaction as she was expecting, as d'Artagnan and Treville dismounted. She could feel the woman's presence at her back as surely as if she was pressed against it. She gave a quiet moan and slowly turned. "I should have guessed." She said. "Back from the dead, I should have guessed."

"It seems we are both prone to resurrection." Athos agreed.

"It's amazin' what you can do with a bit of play-actin'." Porthos said. "And a pig's bladder full o' blood."

Athos stopped in front of the woman. "Did your revenge taste as sweat as you imagined it would?"

"For a moment." She whispered and stepped closer. "And then something strange happened—the world seem diminished without you." Her steps carried her passed the woman, but soon halted away as Athos turned and with her pistol drawn, cocked it. "Mmm." She chuckled to herself. It was exactly a situation like this that drove her to take Constance. She turned. "Shoot me and you will never see Constance Bonacieux alive again."

d'Artagnan charged for her, but Athos outstretched arm nearly close-lined him, knocking the breath from his chest and injured side, halted him. He gripped the woman's arm tightly. "Where is she?" he demanded. "If you hurt her—I'll kill you."

"Oh, young love. So touching." She cooed. "How sickening." She looked at Athos and ignored him. "I warned you there would be a final reckoning between us, Athos." Now she looked at Treville. "Treville! I'll be waiting in the Rue Saint-Jacques in one hours time. Send them, no one else."

With a low growl comprised of suppressed fury, d'Artagnan returned to the others and stood by his horse as Athos gave him a firm push back, his anger making the animal snort nervously.

Athos lowered her pistol and Milady approached, now with confidence that she would leave with her life intact.

"This is your doing, not mine." She leaned forward and whispered in her ear, "When Constance dies, it'll be her blood he will see on your hands."

And this time, when she turned to walk away, no one stopped her. Athos returned to them, hooking her pistol back onto her belt.

"Argh!" d'Artagnan gave a cry of frustration. "I told you she would never have just disappeared. This whole time, Constance has been at Milady's mercy! Who knows the things she's done?"

"It will be an ambush." Athos sighed. "She has no intention of letting any of us live."

"Let her try!" d'Artagnan shouted. "If I find out she's harmed Constance in any way, I'll kill her myself!" He mounted his horse and steered it around before kicking his heels into the animal's ribs. It shot off down the road at the force from the Gascon's heels.

Athos mounted and they quickly followed after the young man.

Aramis looked over at her. "You were right in not telling him about Constance before—but we were also wrong."

* * *

"All for one, and one for all!" the four Inseparables chanted from within the garrison armoury, their hands clasped tightly, loaded up to the gills.

d'Artagnan looked at each of them in turn. "Thank you for doing this." He whispered.

"Just like our motto, d'Artagnan." Porthos said gruffly. "You are us an' we are you."

"Still," he said around the lump in his throat. "I don't know where I would be without you guys." —his Angels.

"We are going to get her back, d'Artagnan." Athos said firmly. "There will be no die-trying."

"Besides," Aramis gave a cheeky grin. "After shooting you, it's the least we can do."

d'Artagnan gave a small laugh. "If your talking about even's made, shouldn't I just shoot you all in return?"

"Hey, now." Aramis back-peddled. "Technically it was Athos who shot you."

"Thanks," Athos deadpanned. "That goes right along with our motto."

"Sorry," she looked a bit sheepish. "I was thinking of our old one: every woman for herself."

"Either way," Porthos said. "Let's get these bastards!"

"There's nothing more I agree with, sisters!" d'Artagnan pumped their hands. He was going to get Constance back and Milady was going to pay for the day she thought she could break them.

She should have learned by now—Musketeers don't die easily.

* * *

The innocent run from the street and hide for cover in their homes as Sarazin's men flood the street, claiming perches on balconies and windows, and on roofs and in the street. At the end of Rue Saint-Jacques, on the right-side of the dead-end street was a tunnel walk. Sarazin shoved Constance along it.

"Soon," Milady said, walking behind them. "They will come for you and this will finally be over. They will be dead, and so will you. And I will be free."

Constance jerked to a halt and faced the woman. "Musketeers don't die easily." She spat the woman's own words spoken to the Cardinal at the beginning of this whole mess, back at her. "If I were you, I'd run—Because this is going to be where your life ends."

Sarazin grabbed her arm and dragged her from the tunnel and a quarter down the street, leaving Milady behind. "Now, you move, you die." He said roughly and back away to cover in front of the tunnel under a hayloft.

The street was eerily quiet as Constance stood there, waiting. She swore she could hear each of the men's heartbeat, along with her own. It flooded her ears, like the pounding of drums. Her breath sound harsh in her own ears. It wasn't until a moment later that she realized the drumming was the clop of hooves as a pair of horses stopped in the entry on the other side of the street, harnessed to a driverless, tarped wagon.

She could feel the tension in the air as everyone held with baited breath. And then the wagon started forward again several yards before stopping again. Leaving in its wake, Porthos on the laying on the ground, having dropped from underneath the wagon carriage. She raised her two pistols and quickly killed a man in a lower doorway and another on the balcony.

The tarp was flung aside and d'Artagnan and Athos popped up from the wagon bed, and Aramis from the front bench.

"Constance, get down!" d'Artagnan screamed and his voice was music to her ears, even as the gunshots exploded around her. Aramis shot a man in a window before d'Artagnan took a man in a lower window and Aramis another from behind on a low roof before she rolled off the bench, and to cover at the side with the Gascon and Athos, Porthos at the back of the cart.

A man rushed them from behind as Sarazin ordered his men to kill the Musketeers and grabbed Constance, backing up. Porthos cut the rushing man down with a musket, and he flew backwards. Aramis dispatched expertly placed bullet from her harquebus, between the small gap between two barrels down the street and into a man's skull. She discarded the gun back into the wagon and retrieved two pistols.

Athos cradled two hand bombs in her gloved hand, and lit the short fuses into life. She lobbed them down the street as they fizzled, the metal casings thunking and rolling on the ground. The Musketeers ducked for cover as they exploded halfway down the street, sending dirk, brick and a few men flying. The smoke clogged the street blind and Aramis thwacked the closest horse's rump with a musket and the wagon charged down the street, swallowed by the smoke.

The Inseparables gathered and slowly made their way down the street. They picked off man after man. Shot from windows, first floor and second. From balconies, and lofts. On the street and off of roofs. Bodies collapsed where they stood, or dropped from above, hanging out windows.

Pistols spent, Porthos tossed them aside and grabbed the barrel of a musket hanging from a first floor window, and yanked—pulling the unexpecting man from his perch. She claimed his musket, cracking his skill with its butt, before she used its ball to fell a man climbing up a balcony. He dropped down and broke through the canopy.

All guns spent, the Inseparables pulled their swords. They weren't the only ones, the bandits all rushed from their perches, their own swords drawn.

d'Artagnan cut a quick path to his only goal—Sarazin—while the men were still equalizing themselves, and the crowd grew thick around the three women. Sarazin had his arm wrapped around Constance's throat, her body held out in front of his. d'Artagnan raised his pistol, having left the one on his belt loaded and untouched for this purpose exactly. He fired, clipping the man on the shoulder—he took all of Aramis' shooting lessons to heart.

"Constance, run!" he yelled, and the woman twisted from the man's grasp and headed away from the fighting and back towards the tunnel, her only hope of escape.

Sarazin frantically pulled his sword and d'Artagnan parried his strike with a roar, kicking the man back into the loft post. He slashed and Sarazin ducked, his sword clipping into the wood. Sarazin threw a handful of hay at him, blinding him.

Constance made it into the tunnel, only to be forced to halt as Milady stood waiting with a pistol. "Where do you think you're going?"

Porthos used the musket like a club, sweeping aside the men when it got too crowded, before she tossed it and got down and dirty with her hands. d'Artagnan was forced to turn from Sarazin for a moment to take care of some wanderers who split off from the main body. His back turned, Sarazin charged him. The Gascon turned just in time to block the strike.

Aramis got in close to her man and pulled his pistol from him. She pointed it at him and he froze in wide-eyes fear. She grinned—and shot another attempting to charge her, before turning back and running the man through with the sword in her other hand.

Athos flipped a man from her back over her shoulder, thumping him to the ground, a boot planted on his throat, pulling his arm taut, even as she defended an attack from another. Their swords clashed, before she stabbed him and then turned her sword to the man literally under her boot.

The crowd of men was steadily thinning, there were only three of them, but still, the bandits were at the mercy of the Musketeer women. Two daggers flew through the air, each from different parties, to burry into the same man. Aramis and Athos shared a grin.

d'Artagnan exchanged hard strokes with Sarazin. Before the man pulled a small pistol. d'Artagnan dropped back and slashed the gun away with his sword, it fired harmlessly. Sarazin thrust at him on the ground, but d'Artagnan parried and spun on his knee, slashing at the man—disembowelling him. He dropped to his knees and then forward on his face with an exhale—dead.

"Alright?" Athos question as the three women met him. He nodded. "Constance?"

"She ran into the tunnel."

Smoke still lingered in the air as the four Inseparables walked into the mouth of the tunnel, their sight briefly obscured—only to reveal Milady standing in the middle of the tunnel before the bend, an arm around Constance's neck and her small flintlock to her temple.

"One more step and she dies." Milady declared and they halted instantly.

"Stop this now." Athos slowly stepped from the group, her hands raised placating. "You've hurt enough people today."

Milady directed the pistol toward her. "You dare talk to me about hurt?" she spat.

Remembering what d'Artagnan had taught her, Constance struck Milady's gun arm and the pistol fired into the ceiling of the tunnel, dust raining down. She broke from Milady and ran past Athos and into d'Artagnan's arms.

"I'm sorry!" she cried. "What I said, I didn't mean any of it. None of it! Not of it was true!"

d'Artagnan held her tight and crushed their lips together, desperately and passionately. Porthos cleared her throat uncomfortably and after a moment, both blushing, the pair parted. But d'Artagnan looked rather pleased with himself as he kept his arm wrapped around the woman's waist.

* * *

Celine laughed as she walked down the street laid with Sarazin's dead men. Her cheek burned and felt tight, streaked with blood. They laid on the street, hanging halfway out windows—first story and second. She sneered and spat on his body when she discovered it. She was going to make them pay.

She crouched next to him and picked up his pistol, reloading it from his belt before she relieved him of his dagger as well. Milady de Winter; she thought she was so much better, but she was just a street whore, too. _Madame_ Bonacieux; she thought she was so special to have a husband and a lover and a home.

Discarded... Ugly... —they were the ugly ones. Milady and Sarazin—their souls dark and twisted. Cruel.

Celine stood and headed for the tunnel towards the voices. She would show them how much of nothing they were, not her!

* * *

"Enough. It's over." Athos froze Milady with her raised pistol. Funny thing was, it wasn't even loaded. But the woman didn't need to know that. "Kneel." Milady was shaking, but after a moment, the woman dropped to the ground on her knees. "Do you have anything thing to say for yourself?"

"Go ahead, finish what you started!" she seethed.

"You don't have to do this." Aramis reasoned.

"Leave this to th' proper authorities, Athos." Porthos agreed.

They knew what agony the kneeling woman had caused their friend, but they knew that finally killing her would not be the sort of peace that the woman sought and deserved.

But Athos shook her head. "I made her what she is. Her murders are on my head." She hooked her empty pistol back onto her belt and drew her sword.

"It is you who should be on your knees." Milady spat. "Now kill me. And do a better job of it than last time." She panted. "This time you have to watch, this time you can't run away!"

Athos breathed heavily as she lined up her blade with Milady's neck. The tip shook as she stared at the chocker and what she knew must lay beneath. The scars from the hanging on her order, for the murder of her little brother. Grief made her heart ache. For the loss of Thomas, for the loss of what she had with Anne.

And suddenly, she dropped her arm, panting. Before she sheathed it and took a step away from the woman. "You're right,"

Milady gasped where she knelt, looking at the other woman in confusion. "Why can you never commit? You know there can be no peace for either of us, until we are both dead. Why c—"

"Then die and I shall have peace!" Celine screamed. They turned to the girl in surprise. The pistol shook in her hand, but steadied the instant she pulled the trigger. The bang was concussive inside the tunnel.

Milady grunted as red spilled from her chest and soaked into her dress, and she slumped to the side. "No!" Athos screamed, gathering the dying woman into her arms.

"You!" Celine screeched, the dagger raised as she leapt towards d'Artagnan and Constance. But she halted in front on them, blood leaking from the corner of her mouth as Porthos skewered her from behind with her sword.

"Who's she?" Porthos asked as she pulled her sword free and the girl dropped to the ground, dead.

"She was with Milady," Constance said, looking down sadly at the girl, his arms wrapped tightly around her. "She'd the one that lured me away."

"Anne!" Athos cried, and repeatedly brushed the woman hair from her face. "Anne."

"Olivia," there was hardly a breath to the woman's voice, and Athos leaned closer to hear. "I-I'm dying... I always w-wanted you to h-hold me in your arms one last t-time. What I s-said before... that still holds true... my l-lo..." Her body shook in the woman's arms as her lungs gave this horrible rattle and her last breath left her.

Athos was left staring into the blank green-eyes of the woman who had haunted her for the last six-years.

* * *

"Your Eminence?" a Royal Messenger stepped into the Cardinal's office. "The King demanded your attendance on a matter of the highest importance."

Dread filled the First Minister.

* * *

"Will Athos be alright?" Constance asked gently as d'Artagnan walked with her from Rue Saint-Jacques. The King had called the Musketeers' attendance, but Treville allowed d'Artagnan leave to escort Constance home again.

He claimed her hand and she looked at them nervously. "It time," he said softly. "Hopefully, mine, Aramis', and Porthos' company will balm the pain—they really helped me after..." his brows flickered to their joined hands.

"d'Artagnan," she pulled them to a halt. "I need to—"

"It doesn't matter." He whispered and released her hand to take either side of her face and claim her lips with his own.

She moaned softly, and wrapped her arms his neck, standing on her toes. His tongue was like a soft caress against her own.

" _Madame_ Bonacieux," Mia came running down the street, breathless. Constance quickly pulled from d'Artagnan and looked at her maid. "Come quickly!"

She shook off the ill-feeling the repeated words caused, as just the other day, it was a trick to gain her life as leverage. But she knew Mia. "What's happened?"

"It's the Master—he's tried to kill himself. You must come quickly!"

"I have—" Constance looked from Mia to d'Artagnan.

"Constance..." he knew that look well enough. He took her hand. "You don't have to go."

She shook her head. "I can't have this on my conscious, d'Artagnan." She cupped his cheek and then her hand slipped from his fingers as she ran down the street and disappeared around the corner.

He could hear his heart breaking and his lips parted—a exhaled left his lips in lieu of a wrenched scream. He's made so many mistakes in his life... Insisting that they stop at that inn hours before he and his father reached Paris. Sleeping with Milady, or Anne, or whoever she truly was. Accepting her patronage.

But he wasn't going to let Constance be another one of those Mistakes. He loved her, she was his heart. He didn't want to be without her anymore—and he _knew_ she felt the same. Was he selfish if he knew that he made Constance happy? That they were meant to be together? Couldn't Bonacieux see that she didn't love him? He would fight the man if he had to.

Mind set, he straightened and headed to the Bonacieux house to get his happily-ever-after.

* * *

Richelieu entered the more grand throne room, his eyes scanning the gathered crowd as he walked towards the Royals. He saw Treville and his three women, wondered where d'Artagnan was. He also saw the Mellendorfs as well, and knew it was the end.

He bowed to the King.

"I never expected this, Cardinal." Louis said, and Richelieu swallowed but kept his expression controlled as he glanced at the smiling Queen. "Not after so long. When My Queen told me..." He took the woman's hand and grinned. "That she is with child!"

The Cardinal's eyes widened in shock and disbelief.

Athos shot Aramis a look and muttered quietly so the other wouldn't hear to the markswoman, "Lucky. Had you been a man, I might have feared you the father." The Spaniard purposefully didn't look at her and instead, ended up catching the Queen's eye.

"Pregnant." The Cardinal stammered.

"Indeed." Louis chuckled. "Isn't it wonderful?" he started to clap and everyone else pleasantly joined in.

Porthos seemed to clap extra enthusiastically, this news was especially pleasing and happy after the last few days.

"May I offer my most hearty congratulations to Your Majesty?" Richelieu bowed.

"I'm certain your share our delight." Anne murmured.

"No one could be happier than I."

"In honour of this marvellous news," Louis announced. "The Queen has asked to grant Count Mellendorf a full amnesty for his crime. In fact, she was quite adamant on the matter. What do you say, Cardinal?"

"The Queen's mercy is a lesson to us all." He replied in a monotone. "Provided the Count himself has no complaints to make?" he looked at said-man pointedly.

"I am content simply to return home with my beloved daughter Charlotte." Mellendorf said quickly. "I hope never to hear another word on this matter again."

"My own sentiments entirely." The Cardinal muttered and glance back to see Treville smirking at him.

"The queen would like to rest in private." Louis said and the pair rose. "We will celebrate later." And the parted. The crowd bowed and dispersed as well.

Athos carefully watched Aramis.

She thought that the Spaniard, seeing the Queen with the King's child would smother any ardent feelings and desire for the woman, but though her eyes held a dash of jealousy, they glowered with love and desire still.

It was something to be thought on later, but now, she had one last visit to make with Milady before she could move ahead.

* * *

Aramis bowed to the Queen, one-on-one in the empty hall. One of her Ladies had called on the Musketeer as they had been leaving.

"I'm convinced this baby will be born strong and healthy." Anne told her. "It will be a boy. I'm certain of it."

"I pray he will have his mother's great wisdom and judgement." Aramis murmured.

"Thank you, Aramis." She whispered. "I believe this would not have happened had we not come together that night in the convent. You helped me free myself of a burden that I believe prevented from such a thing as this from happening. You have done so much for me, Aramis. My thank you can never be enough."

Aramis slowly stepped approached her. "I will watch over your son." She vowed. "And guard him with all my strength and heart." They gazed at each other. "I will lay down my life for him, if necessary." She whispered. "He will have no more devoted servant."

"It is only what I would expect from a King's Musketeer." She smiled softly. "God go will you, Aramis." She murmured and Aramis took her hand and pressed her lips to the woman's knuckles for a long moment.

The Cardinal made witness and smiled. "What a happy occasion this is, Your Majesty." Aramis rose and turned sideways towards him. "A child after so long. Remarkable. One might almost call it a miracle."

"Oh, it is, Cardinal." Anne replied. "Finally, after so many years, the waters of Bourbon-les-eaux take." She gave him a tight smile before she left, and the pair bowed at her parting.

The Cardinal and Musketeer gave each other hard stares for a long moment, before they, too, turned from each other in the same moment.

Aramis was happy and delighted for the Queen. Anne deserved this, to have this happiness growing inside of her. To bring it into this world like she never got the chance to before. And Aramis swore she was going to protect that boy and the Queen with her life.

* * *

Constance gasped lightly from the doorway of the kitchen at the sight of her assaulted husband. "What have you done to yourself?" His face was covered in cuts, and his left arm was in a sling.

"I can't do it, Constance." The man sobbed pitifully from where he sat. "Without you, I am nothing."

"What did you do?" she repeated and knelt by his side. She inspected the damage with keen eyes—it looked at if he might have thrown himself out a window.

"Please don't leave me." He begged.

"Bonacieux," Constance stood. "Why have you truly done this? Not because you love me, because surely, this is not love. This is possession. You want to own me, for no others to have me. I am not an animal!" she told him. "I am a human being and deserve to be happy!"

"With _him_?" Bonacieux suddenly shouted, his entire demeanour changing as he leapt to his feet. "He cannot provide for you like I can. He does not love you like I!"

"You're right." She agreed. And for a moment, that quieted him, until she continued, "He love's me how I am. He doesn't try and suppress me and control me."

"I am your husband."

"No longer." She shook her head, her entire body shaking. She turned and made to leave when he grabbed her wrist with his right hand and jerked her back.

"Where do you think you're going?" he demanded. "You think I'm just going to let you go? To _him_?! Have you forgotten I have the Cardinal's ear now? I can make him disappear." He squeezed her wrist until she grimaced and could feel the bones grind together.

"Do you think I'm afraid of the Cardinal?" d'Artagnan scoffed, standing in the doorway. "Do you know how many schemes and plots of his I have negated? Release her."

"Get out of my house! You're not welcome!" Bonacieux shouted.

"Release her." He repeated, his voice edged. "I won't say again." And he raised his pistol.

Bonacieux's eyes widened. "Are you mad?!"

"You just threatened to have me killed." What the man didn't need to know, was that he had yet to reload the weapon.

It wasn't needed though, as Constance narrowed her eyes and stomped on the man's foot. He cursed and released her. d'Artagnan watched with a grin as she wasn't quite finished yet. She kneed him in the groin—with enough forced that made d'Artagnan at least _want_ to feel sympathy, even if he did not—and groaning to the floor. She dusted her hands.

"Ooh. Have you been sneaking lessons with Porthos behind my back?" he mused, hooking his pistol back onto his belt. She gave a heavy exhale and turned to him. "Okay?" he asked.

"I..." she swallowed and took a breath, her voice a tad shaky. "I need to get my things."

He nodded and stepped aside to let her passed. He squeezed her trembling hand as she went by in comfort and encouragement.

"This isn't over." Bonacieux croaked, pushing up shakily from his prostrate position, his face pale.

"Yes, it is." d'Artagnan said and left the kitchen to help Constance pack her things.

So that was why, he thought. Constance hadn't broken things off with him because she didn't love him, or he had no prospect; but because Bonacieux found out about the affair and threatened to have him killed in some alley one night.

But none of that would be a problem now. The Cardinal wasn't a threat to them anymore, not with what the Musketeers and the Queen had hanging over his head like a guillotine waiting to drop. And Bonacieux was a weak and pitiful man himself, a coward.

* * *

Athos stared down at Milady on a slab in the morgue, the candle at her head casting the plains of her face into long shadows and flickering light. Making her eyes look black, hollow and pitless.

She reached forward and removed the chocker from around the woman's supple neck, revealing the scars of their twisted past. Her fingertips traced lightly over the raised flesh, in a unknown mirror of what d'Artagnan had done when they first laid to bed.

Anne had been in her life for so long, a dark shadow like spilt ink. Staining and spoiling all those clear and innocent around. Athos was scarred and stained pitch forever, fearing no removal. But with Anne gone, dead of this world—Athos slowly started to see blank parchment ahead. Clean and unsoiled, with the headings of Aramis-Porthos-d'Artagnan. She could finally live the live meant to her in the Musketeers without a haunting past and the live phantoms of tragedy dogging her every step.

And as she took the locket off from around her neck and off her breast, and gazed at the painted forget-me-not inside, letting the chain gather in her palm—she took the first unhindered deep breath in six-years.

She clipped the chain around the dead woman's neck, and laid the locket on her bloodied breast, right next to the hold in her chest. And so she took another breath and another. Each less burdened and more freeing than the last.

She pulled the sheet over Milady's head, covering her face from view. She bent and blew the candle out, casting the body into shadows. And when she turned and left the morgue to head back to the garrison to her sisters and brother, she knew Milady's reach was forever gone—the Hands of Hell had her now.

* * *

"Oh, my God. d'Artagnan! What just happened?" Constance gasped, jerking the Gascon to a halt in a few streets away. What she had just done—what _they_ had just done, hit her. "I just left my husband, my home. What am I going to do?

"Constance," he hushed and set her bag down. He took her trembling hands in his. "It's going to be alright. You can stay at the garrison until we find something."

"We?" she asked, and he smiled. "How do you know it's going to be all right?

He cupped her cheek and she leaned into the touch. "Because... I do."

She scoffed at that. "You always say that."

"And it always works out."

"Show off." She huffed in laughter. But it did seem to reassure her, steady her to have him there. She wasn't sure she would have been able to do it otherwise and that was something that scared her even more than actually doing it.

He leaned forward and gave her a soft kiss in response. "Come on." He said and holding her hand, picked up her bag and led her to the garrison. It would work out, he told himself, and he knew it to be true.

* * *

"Uh-oh." Aramis murmured, breaking the subdued silence between the three women at the table in the yard as they waited for their fourth to return. Athos was slowly coming to terms with the loss of both her love and her nightmare. Aramis feeling a scary anticipation starting to grow inside of her at Anne pregnancy. And Porthos was left to wonder on the weird atmosphere twisting around them.

Aramis was the first to see d'Artagnan enter the garrison, and with him Constance and a bag. Porthos looked up from where she sat next to the Spaniard, and Athos twisted on the bench where her back had been to the yard.

"You steal someone's wife while we weren't lookin', pup?" Porthos wondered in amusement and pleasure as they pair approached. "We've been lettin' you 'ang out with Aramis too long!"

"Hey!" Aramis smacked her on the shoulder. "That's an outrageous accusation."

"It's not an accusation if it's true." Athos pointed out.

"Oh, right. Still..."

Porthos snorted.

Athos looked back at d'Artagnan and Constance. "What has happened?"

Constance raised her chin. "I've left Bonacieux. He knew I was seeing d'Artagnan and threatened to have him killed by the Cardinal's influence—"

All three women reacted instantly—on their feet, hands on their swords.

"Where is he?" Athos said deathly.

"Whoa!" d'Artagnan exclaimed, holding up his hands. "Easy." He smirked, "Constance took care of him."

"She did?" Aramis raised a brow.

Constance nodded. "He faked a suicide attempt to keep me from leaving. He started to get physical when I still intended on going."

"Are you alright?" Aramis instantly asked, taking a step forward. The woman nodded.

"You should have seen her!" d'Artagnan crowed in delight, grinning. "Didn't even need my help. Ah. Porthos—you would have been proud! Remember that first move you taught me?"

"She was good?" Porthos chuckled and grinned.

He nodded. "Perfection."

"Stop that!" Constance smacked him lightly on the chest, her cheeks turning pink.

"So, where will you be staying?" Aramis asked.

d'Artagnan suddenly looked abashed. "Well—" he scratched his cheek. "We were kind of hoping that she could stay at the garrison... just until we can find somewhere."

"You think Treville will go for that?" Porthos wondered aside to Aramis.

"Maybe," Aramis shrugged.

Athos watched the couple quietly, and after a moment of thought, came to a decision. " _Madame_ , you can stay at my apartment."

"What?" d'Artagnan wasn't the only one shocked. "Athos—"

Constance shook her head. "I can't inconvenience you like that, Athos. But, thank you. We'll figure something out."

Athos shook her head as well. "After what's happened today... I thought it would be better if I stayed at the garrison for a bit," she hesitated for a moment and shot a glance over at Porthos and Aramis, "Surrounded by my sisters."

"Aw!" Aramis was suddenly and dramatically touched. "I never knew you cared!"

"Shhh!" Porthos hissed. "No sudden movements, or you'll scare 'er away." She warned with a grin, and the Spaniard snickered.

Athos sent them both a withering glower before he she turned back to the couple. "Take it, d'Artagnan."

d'Artagnan gazed at his best-friend and gave a firm nod. "Thank you, Athos. Constance?"

The redhead nodded, her expression soft. "Thank you for being so kind."

Athos just nodded and cleared her throat self-consciously.

Constance took the bag from his hand and he started to lead her back out of the garrison with a hand on the small of her back, before he made another decision of his own and told her to go on he'd be a minute.

He turned back towards the crowded three women, slowly walking backwards, his friends, sister, family, and—

There was a pleased and mischievous smirk on his face. "Treville never told me to tell you guys this, but the first time we sat at that table..." he paused. "I declared you three my Angels!"

There was silence as they looked across at him.

"Angels?" Aramis repeated.

"Uh-huh. Just thought you should know—seeing as we're being so honest with each other. See you later!" and he rushed off to Constance, in case they decided to do what Treville had always suggested they might—and consume him. He might just need to red-haired woman's fighting skills.

"What are you three standing around for?" Treville wondered with a note of concern as he came down the stairs. They slowly turned towards him and their expression made him pause, as did their next words.

"You knew about this, sir?" Athos asked.

"Knew about what, exactly?" he asked slowly, wondering if he could get out of this before the trap closed in on him.

"Charlie's proclaimed us his Angels." Aramis said.

"Um..." he'd all but ordered the Gascon not to say a word, and now he seemed to be paying the price. When he saw d'Artagnan next— "I'm sure he didn't mean anything by it(?)"

"The only one who's ever called me an angel was my Ma." Porthos murmured.

"And people say I'm like demon—or God—but never an angel." Aramis thought.

Athos looked at her and pointed, "They say that to you in bed, don't they?"

Aramis shrugged, "I've still never been called an angel—it's a nice change." Porthos rubbed her shoulder in sympathy.

Treville stared at them in disbelief. It took all his years of experience as a soldier not to do it open-mouthed. "Am I to understand you are **not** angry about this?" Porthos and Aramis shook their heads and they all looked to Athos. "Athos? Your opinion on this matter?"

Athos was quiet for a stretched moment as they all waited with baited breath for her reaction, her face a solid mask, revealing nothing. "No one must know of this." She stated, turned on her heel, and left the garrison.

They looked after her.

Aramis chuckled. "She's okay with it."

Treville wasn't entirely sure he got that impression, but he let the matter go.

"Oh, yeah! Did you see 'er blushin'?" Porthos grinned.

"But she was right," Aramis said to Treville. "Don't say anything to anyone—least of all Charlie."

"Yeah," Porthos cracked her knuckles affectionately. "We've got plan for 'im."

"As long as it doesn't end up on my office, or the Chatelet." Treville said plainly and with relief. And headed back up to his office as the two women started to scheme and decide what they had in mind for the Gascon. Anything they did would be far more effective than anything he could have done as a Captain and decided to let the young man's loud mouth slide—for now.

* * *

 **Epilogue:  
**

* * *

The three Inseparables sat around the dark, candle lit table in their favoured bar, drinking, and waiting for their fourth member and friend. The last few days had been long, and it was just nice to sit, relax, drink—and be together. At least for two-thirds of the current party.

"Milady is forever from stalking our shadows and Richelieu put in proper order—what are the Musketeers to do with their days now?"

"Live in peace and 'armony!" Porthos invoked.

"Here to hoping that never lasts." Aramis raised her glass.

"Do I need to draw my pistol?" Athos said and the Spaniard's eyes widened.

"You wouldn't."

Athos said nothing, just gave her a steady look.

Porthos looked between the two of them in confusion. "I'm missin' somethin'. I know I am."

"The last time Aramis asked for excitement over the peace, she pleaded for me to shoot her the next time she made the same mistake."

"What?" Porthos exclaimed. "That's not fair. I want to shoot somebody."

"Perhaps we both should," Athos said slowly, taking a sip from her cup. "Make sure the lesson sticks."

"You can't be serious!" Aramis cried.

"In a minute," Athos agreed. "Let's just finish this round—then we'll step outside."

"And 'ere I thought the night was goin' to end on a low note." Porthos grinned at the accusing pout. "What? It only fair."

"I knew I would find you all in a dismal place like this!" d'Artagnan claimed the empty seat between Porthos and Athos. Aramis leaned forward and filled the empty cup left for him with wine. "What are we talking about?"

"Shootin' Aramis."

"What? Really?" he smiled in excitement and rubbed his hands together. "I wondered when I was going to get to shoot you three."

"Not three," Athos corrected. "Just Aramis."

He furrowed his brows. "Why just Aramis?"

"My questioned exactly!" Aramis nodded.

"You attempt to curse our peacetime."

"Oh, that is definitely a shoot-worthy offence." d'Artagnan nodded solemnly.

Aramis held up her hands in supplication—"I think we're all just getting a little overboard."—and kicked.

"Ow!" d'Artagnan cursed. "Did someone just kick me?"

Aramis grimaced and tried again, and got a returning grunt from Porthos.

"What was that for?" the tall woman exclaimed, sending a glare at Aramis. Aramis kept pointedly looking and jerking her head at the confused Gascon. "Ah!" it dawned on her and she turned to looked at d'Artagnan.

"What?"

"We still need to discuss this Angel fantasy of yours." She growled lowly.

"Hey, now." He chuckled nervously, looking between the three women. "Can't we talk on this?"

"Sure," Porthos gave him a shark-grin, and wrapped an arm around the young man's shoulders, pulling him tight, though mindful enough of his wound. "Let's talk."

"It-it's nothing perverted!" he protested. And Athos raised a brow. He paused and heat flooded his cheeks. He wanted to sink through the floor, but Porthos' hold prevented him.

"Well?" she encouraged.

"Um… I meant in the sense of warriors." He looked between them nervously, before three smiles met him. He laughed and smiled back. "Treville said if I ever told you—you would eat me alive. I guess he was wrong!"

"Oh, he's right." Athos intoned, sitting back and taking a drink.

"W-What? But I thought—"

She shook her head. "Not for that—but for keeping us worried during your absence."

"A bullet wound can heal, Athos." d'Artagnan whispered, concern edging his voice. "But I know what the loss of a loved one can do."

"I did not—"

"You did. Whatever Milady may have turned out to be in the end… she was still the woman that you had loved, she was still a part of your life."

Athos took a deep breath as the others watched her carefully. "Anne—Milady—was my past… you three, are my future."

"Now I will raise a cup to that." Aramis said and three other cups met hers in the middle. "Whatever may happen, we will always have each other."

"And love." d'Artagnan said, thinking of Constance and of his sisters.

"Loyalty." Porthos intoned.

"Honour." Athos nodded after a moment.

"For honour!" they cheered and they drank and they laughed, because they had each other, no matter the end of the day.

"All for one, and one for all!"

(the end)

* * *

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

So... Review? :) What did you think of my ending? Constance leaving Bonacieux to be with d'Artagnan. I killed off Milady using Celine (who had just vanished like told in the episode) because I wanted to give Athos a closer, a help her move on without the assassin's weight. Queen Anne is obviously pregnant with the King's baby, seeing as Aramis is a woman in this, but their time together helped Anne move through a blockade of sorts that was built up after her first miscarriage. And something that will never change, them sticking together. And I want to hit a thanks over to Issai for all the great reviews, and thanks everyone for reading! :)

 _Coin_ (French) = corner.

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